The Elder Prophets (To Absolve the Fallen Book 2)

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  The Elder Prophets

  by: Aaron Babbitt

  Copyright 2012

  Dedicated to my mother.

  Prologue

  The powers that be had kept the story hushed, but one of Sara’s friends in Indianapolis had leaked the information to her. It seems that someone in a public library had spontaneously burst into flame. Afterward, this person and an old man wielding a mace had done battle.

  By the time officers had arrived on the scene, a man and a boy were making a getaway. The ensuing chase came to an abrupt halt when the officers following the man were told to cease their pursuit.

  “Why?” Sara had asked her friend in Indianapolis.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “All I know is that they got a direct call from the chief of police, telling them to let him go. Even still, they followed him for a while.”

  “The person you identified from the pictures I sent,” Sara pressed, “did you get a name?”

  “The librarian at the circulation desk thought the old man said a J-name, like Jeremy or something.”

  “No last name?”

  “Sara, the woman saw this guy burst into flame. She didn’t have time to dictate.”

  “I know,” Sara said apologetically.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara admitted, “but I’m sure, now, that the two incidents are connected. And I think they may be connected to a string of bizarre murders from all over the country.”

  “A serial killer who spontaneously combusts?”

  “Brian?” she began warily. “Have you ever heard of someone named Tony Heller?”

  “Should I have?”

  “He said he was a detective on the case about the boy who was nailed to his bedroom wall. You remember that one?”

  “Of course,” the voice on the other line commented. “How could I forget that?”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “he doesn’t work in Baltimore. I checked all of the rosters in all of the departments. He isn’t on any of them.”

  “You think he’s a Fed?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara replied from her contemplation. “Listen, Brian. Keep those pictures, especially Jeremy’s. If any more witnesses pop up and can place him at the scene, let me know. Okay?”

  “Sure, Sara. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make a call.” With that, she hung up the phone.

  She pulled out a file. It said JOSHUA TIVERDALE on the front. She opened it, and a picture they had taken from the boy’s apartment was in there. Also, paper clipped to the file, there was a business card with “Tony Heller, Detective” printed on it. It didn’t say where he was a detective. She chastised herself for not noticing that sooner. There was no office number on it, which also should have caught her attention. But there was a cell number. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. It had a prefix and area she didn’t recognize.

  The phone rang twice, and a voicemail picked up. “This is Jeremiah. Leave a message.”

  She hung the phone up and looked at the card. She was sure she had dialed the right number. Why had she gone to a Jeremiah’s voicemail? Then, it dawned on her.

  “A J-name,” she said. “...Like Jeremy.”

  But Tony didn’t look anything like the guy on the tape. What was the connection? To make sure she hadn’t simply dialed a wrong number, she picked up the phone and dialed again. The message was the same, but this time, she decided to leave something.

  “This is Sara,” she said, her voice a little shaky.

  She left her phone number and asked this Jeremiah to call her back when he got a chance; she said she had important information for him. She hung up the phone and noticed that she was shivering slightly. Something about Jeremiah’s voice had struck her. She had only heard him speak six words, but those words made her feel small and insignificant. There was something very wrong about this.

  She stared at her phone for about two minutes, then realized she was acting childish. She got up to make herself coffee. But, when she returned to her desk, she started staring at the phone again, as if she expected it to start ringing any minute.

  Chapter 1

  Old versus new. That seems to be a constant struggle for humanity. Do we abandon the old ways, which are held in high esteem, to move forward? Does anything actually change over time? Will old money become bankrupt in the face of budding corporations? Do parents know better than children? Are sequels ever better than the original? Can a prophet defeat a demon? Will the most evil of creatures ever become righteous? Unfortunately, the answer to all of these questions is the same: sometimes. The enigmatic nature of such an answer serves to give hope to some and frustrate others. To take a risk and try something new could easily bring about failure. And being slavish to tradition or established methods may result in stagnation. So, can we ever really know if it would be better to stand firm or change? Sometimes.

  --Abigail Martin, Through the Eyes of a Martyr

  Dylan had left the mansion to fulfill his part of the mission. Abbie had taken a leave of absence from her classes to continue the prophet recruiting Jeremiah had started. Elizabeth was busy trying to locate Metatron’s castle in Vienna. Lao Shi had business for his religion that he had to attend to. It had been nearly twelve hours since Alex had been taken and Jeremiah left. Matt lay on his back, outside the mansion, looking up at the sky.

  He was trying not to blame himself. He was trying to find the peace that Lao Shi knew existed, but he couldn’t. Everything he saw or heard reminded him that, if he had not left, this situation would have never come to pass.

  He turned over on his side and curled up into a fetal position. He wept out of anger and fear. Frustration and impotence consumed him. It had been a long time since he prayed, but this seemed like a good time to pick it back up.

  Suddenly, he could feel something very powerful very close to him. He opened his eyes slowly, and, through his tears he saw someone walking toward him. He sat up straight and wiped his eyes.

  “Oh, my God,” was all he could think to say.

  ***

  “Would you like anything to eat or drink?” Metatron offered.

  Alex and Metatron were sitting at a table in a huge banquet hall. Metatron’s castle stood just outside of Vienna. It had survived many wars, the redrawing of borders, and supernatural skirmishes. At least, that’s what Metatron had said.

  “No,” Alex replied curtly.

  “It won’t do for you to starve to death,” Metatron added.

  “The last time I took something from a demon, I was drugged and kidnapped.”

  “Funny. I promise you that this food is not drugged, and I have no further need to kidnap you.” Metatron shrugged and put the food down on the table. “Did I mention that I like what you’ve done with your hair? The blond was good, but brown suits you well too.”

  “Why do you need me so much, anyway?” Alex asked, ignoring the small talk. “I don’t think Jeremiah is going to come for me, and, even if he does, I won’t let him sacrifice everything he’s created to save me.”

  “I need you because I need Jeremiah,” Metatron explained. “Only he has ever defeated Lucifer, and, as Lucifer will need to be d
efeated once more, I require Jeremiah’s help. And I can assure you that he will come for you. Regardless of how you feel about the situation, it’s hard to predict how one will act when something he loves is in danger. I think he will come to see things my way.”

  “What could you possibly have that would compete with Heaven?”

  “Do you really think God would take him back?” Metatron scoffed. “Do you have any idea what Jeremiah has done?” Metatron looked across the table at Alex. “No,” he added. “I can see you don’t. Do you know that Jeremiah is responsible for more prophets’ deaths than any other demon, including myself?”

  “You aren’t going to turn me against him,” Alex responded.

  “I’m not trying to,” Metatron countered. “I obviously don’t think there’s anything wrong with killing prophets for a good reason. Did he tell you how he fell?”

  “Yes.”

  Metatron nodded. “It’s a sad story, isn’t it? I’ll bet he didn’t tell you what he did after that.”

  “He told me that he sought revenge on those responsible for Jesus’s death.”

  “No. I mean after that. He made his way to Rome and became a perpetual advisor to each and every Roman emperor into the fourth century. He offered them knowledge and wisdom beyond human comprehension, but he was still mad with grief, and they knew it.

  “He did things that could neither be explained nor considered. Few people outside of Rome’s ever-changing royal family even knew of his existence, but some of them recorded what they had witnessed. Jeremiah had those records for a while. You see, after he killed them or brought about their death, he insisted upon keeping mementos. I don’t know if he still has them. Most of the documents have probably disintegrated over time. More than one of them expressed some concern about his dining habits. Although we demons don’t actually need to eat, it seems that Jeremiah was quite fond of human flesh—especially the tender flesh of children.”

  “You’re lying,” Alex muttered, not able to even conceptualize of what Metatron was saying.

  “Why would I? Besides, you haven’t heard the best part. Jeremiah would torture people in ways that human beings only wish they could implement. One way, in particular, was most fascinating to me. Jeremiah possesses an uncanny ability to keep people alive, despite tremendous injury and pain.”

  Metatron grinned deviously at Alex before continuing. “He would cut them open and peel away their fat by the handful. Mind you, this is before the wonders of modern anesthetics, and, even if he’d had access to any kind of effective pain killer, he wouldn’t have used it. He would sew his victims up and boil their fat to make a broth. Then, he would force them to drink it, still bubbling, until their esophagi and stomachs burned away or they drowned on their own fat and vomit.”

  Alex thought he would be sick. Metatron was chuckling softly.

  “Yes,” Metatron said, “I think that one is my favorite. It’s symbolic, don’t you think? Man spends his life accumulating—gorging—only to be killed by that which he has accumulated.” Metatron took a deep breath. “But you mustn’t hold that against Jeremiah. When an angel falls from grace, it experiences a loss that humans will never be able to comprehend. It goes mad and wants to bring pain and despair to anything or anyone around. It took Jeremiah a little while to find himself, but eventually he did. On a related note,” Metatron added in a matter-of-fact way, “I think I may kill you in a similar fashion if Jeremiah chooses not to help me.”

  “Why?” Alex demanded. “Why does Jeremiah’s decision matter, anyway? I imagine you’ll kill me just for the fun of it. I’m sure you’ve killed hundreds of prophets.”

  “Thousands,” Metatron corrected.

  “How did you go from being a prophet, yourself, to killing prophets?” Alex asked.

  “I had a disagreement with God about how things should be run. I fell, and I did not take too kindly to it. I was once the most powerful angel, exalted above all of the others. God had taken favor upon me in my mortal life. My life and my ascendance made me a legend to all humankind. Then, men became jealous of what I had attained. They petitioned God to drop me down some so that I would not be so daunting. Prophets appealed to God for this.” Metatron laughed. “I didn’t understand how my faith could be rewarded by a demotion, and a painful one, at that. I think even the other angels were jealous of me.”

  “Maybe it was to test your faith,” Alex said.

  “Right,” Metatron huffed. “The same, tired refrain. It’s all a test of faith, isn’t it? It’s all to show His infinite love. Alex, you will find that the all-loving God concept is flawed. If God loves everyone, how can He let atrocities happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex replied. “Maybe they make us stronger, wiser.”

  “Millions of people dying at the hands of a power-hungry dictator will make you stronger? It seems to me that you would be stronger and wiser if those people lived to pass on whatever wisdom they had acquired. How does pain help the cause, Alex?”

  “You cause pain, Enoch,” Alex reminded him spitefully. “How does it help your cause?”

  Metatron laughed. “I have caused a great deal of pain, but I reward those who follow me too. Millions of people died during the Holocaust. They died for their religion; they claimed to be the chosen people of God. If He chose them, where was He when they were being burned alive? Had I chosen them, I would have liberated them and stuck Hitler’s head on a pike. Where is He now, as you are in mortal danger?”

  “He is with me, whether I die or not,” Alex declared. “The Holocaust serves to remind us that we must care for one another. We learn that we must work to stop atrocities like that from ever happening again.”

  “That’s a canned answer, Alex. If it’s a lesson, mankind doesn’t learn very well. It is still happening, and your species will continue to make it happen until you are all dead. That is perhaps the only thing you all are good at—killing each other.”

  “It may take time, but humanity is evolving,” Alex returned.

  “That’s the same line I heard from Jeremiah, and I don’t buy it now any more than I did then. You aren’t getting better; you’re getting more efficient. In fact, I would say you are actually getting worse. Soon, the millions who die will be completely indiscriminate. As your technology grows, you make it easier for everyone on the planet to die within months—if they’re lucky. I fail to see the evolution. We demons could never do as good of a job as you humans do. And, at least when we kill people, we have a purpose. We have an attainable goal. You don’t even know what you want.”

  Alex shook his head. “You can’t lump us all together. Some of us try. We will eventually overcome our faults. You wallow in yours.”

  “As your politicians argue over asinine procedure and matters of state, tens of thousands of children die every day of preventable causes. It’s easy for you to claim that it’s getting better when you live in a wealthy nation. When is the last time you involuntarily missed a meal? When is the last time you had to worry about dysentery? You’ve never seen your parents killed for being the wrong color or the wrong sect. You’ve never watched your sister get gang-raped by guerilla forces. You’ve never been a victim of racism. What do you worry about in your designer clothes and your fancy car? What is Jeremiah really doing to save the world?”

  “God has a plan.”

  “Right,” Metatron scoffed. “A plan. Do you know what it is? Because I think that’s just a cop-out. I don’t believe He actually does have a plan. What would you do, Alex, if I gave you the power Jeremiah thinks he can get for you? How would you save the world?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Alex.

  “You don’t know because there isn’t anything you could do. Your own species wouldn’t let you. Realistically, Alex, the people who could change things are too happy being comfortable to ever allow that to be threatened. Reaching out—helping others—is the best way to get yourself killed. Enjoy your own comfort, Alex, and let me help your kind careen its way toward annihi
lation.”

  “Whatever. You’ll have to kill me because Jeremiah won’t join you.”

  “Tut, tut,” Metatron said. “Let’s not judge how far Jeremiah will go to save you. He has not even arrived yet.”

  “I won’t let him,” Alex repeated defiantly.

  “You don’t have a choice, Alex,” Metatron spat. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You may think that, because I have not killed you yet, you are safe. Don’t be mistaken. There are many other prophets that I can hold over Jeremiah’s head. Your arrogance may well get you killed before your time.”

  Alex mustered all of the strength he had. He forced his fear down and said, “Then, do it.”

  Metatron, not one to be intimidated, shrugged his shoulders, got up, and walked around the table to where Alex was sitting. “This will hurt more than anything you have ever experienced,” he told the prophet.

  He grabbed Alex by the neck and hoisted him out of his chair. Alex tried to gasp for breath that would not come. He noticed that objects in the room began to lose color and shape.

  “I will absorb your power into my own,” Metatron informed him. “Your very soul will serve to strengthen me. And, when Jeremiah arrives, I suppose I may have to kill him too. What a waste.”

  Alex could no longer make out anything in the room except for Metatron. The demon’s black eyes drew Alex into them. Alex felt his life being drained out of him as he lost consciousness.

  ***

  “Alex,” his father said, “you must act now.”

  “What should I do?” Alex begged.

  “I have given a gift to all beings. Some are more adept in using it than others. Faith, Alex. You must rely on faith to save you.”

  “My faith isn’t strong enough,” Alex protested.

  “Could I stop Metatron?” his father asked.

  “Of course you could, but I can’t.”

  “Everything you have—everything in existence—comes from me. You shape it as you choose, but the origin is the same. Use it, Alex. Know that what I have given you is enough. Angels and demons nearly master the power because they have all seen it work for so long. Prophets get to see a glimmer of the world of faith. Humans try to grasp it when they can. However it is wielded, faith is the tool we all use. Now, you must use yours to defeat Metatron.”