They must be gathered for the election. That would explain the angel host we’d seen flying this way.
The crowd parts to let me through.
It must be the sound of the sword dragging behind me that catches everyone’s attention. They all stare as we pass. I feel like a witch being paraded through town. I guess I’m lucky they’re not throwing rotten tomatoes at me.
Instead of going into a room, they take me through the building and out onto the lawn where the massacre happened. They’re putting me on display for all angels to see.
There are still patches of dried blood on the terrace. Apparently, there’s no one left to clean up after them anymore. The place is a mess. Confetti and costumes litter the ground, and for some reason, the grass is churned up like an army had randomly gone through it with shovels.
Signs have sprouted up over the lawn. The last time I was here, there was only one booth, but now there are booths everywhere. They seem to be grouped in threes – red, blue, and green. I can’t read the symbols on the colored banners, but I recognize Uriel’s from when Raffe pointed it out to me. His is the red banner.
The other two banners in each booth cluster are azure blue with symbols that are curved lines and dots and misty green with dashed lines that flow both thick and thin. Even though I can’t read them, I like them better than Uriel’s, which is all angles and screaming in red.
Angels fly all over the sky and walk over the lawn that used to be a golf course. They begin gathering around the colored banners, looking like distinct teams. Many of the angels are chanting, ‘Uriel! Uriel! Uriel!’ near the red-bannered booths like they’re at a football game.
The second largest group gathers around the misty green booths and shouts, ‘Michael! Michael! Michael!’
And a few others collect around the azure blue booths and begin shouting, ‘Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!’
Most of the angels mill around in the sky or between the booths, as if they’re still deciding. But as Raffe’s supporters keep chanting, more soldiers join them and begin shouting his name.
I’m so surprised that I stumble to a stop in the middle of the lawn. My guards have to shove me to get me to go again.
‘Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!’
I hope he’s somewhere nearby, hearing his people shouting his name.
He belongs here.
That thought echoes through my mind because I still have a hard time believing it. Angels are not meant to be alone, and he’s been alone for far too long.
Does he dream about this? To have his wings again and be welcomed back into the host? To lead his soldiers and be part of his tribe again?
‘Raphael! Raphael! Raphael!’
Of course he does. Isn’t that what he’s been telling me all this time? He belongs with them and not with me.
I wonder if he has his angel wings back yet. Is he just on the verge of getting everything he wants? On the verge of going back to his world?
I throw the rest of my thoughts into the vault in my head and lean as hard as I can to close the door. I don’t quite succeed. That’s been happening a lot lately.
A brawl breaks out at the cluster of booths to my right. Some take to the air. Others grapple on the ground. Angels who had been meandering on the lawn fly over to watch the fight.
Four warriors battle against a dozen while spectators cheer. No one uses his sword. This is apparently more of a contest than an angry fight.
The smaller group tosses the other angels around like rag dolls. The brawl is over in seconds.
When the last one is pinned to the ground with another warrior sitting on top of him, the winner shouts, ‘Raphael! First vote goes to Archangel Raphael!’
The four winning warriors jump up with their arms raised in victory and scream into the air. And I realize something. Despite Raffe’s supporters being outnumbered, they are the toughest, fiercest, most skilled fighters.
Then, almost immediately, the spectator angels congregate at another cluster of booths. Another fight is beginning there.
Within seconds, the next round is determined as someone shouts, ‘Michael! Second vote goes to Archangel Michael!’ The crowd cheers.
It’s pure chaos, but somehow everyone seems to know the rules. I’m guessing the winning team of each fight wins a vote for their favorite candidate. The archangel with the most number of winning fights must win the election. So their election isn’t just about the number of people behind you, it’s a matter of having the best fighters behind you.
My guards shove me forward, but they’re not even looking at me. They’re watching the crazed winged warriors as they perform their version of an election.
Some of the angels have what looks like blood smeared across their faces like war paint. Others snarl as they fly past each other over broken plates and crushed champagne glasses. Those who are still wearing dinner jackets from the last party rip them off their shoulders, tearing the seams along the fabric.
They’ve stopped pretending to be civilized and are letting their inner barbarians out.
No wonder Uriel has to go to such extreme sliminess. Raffe and Michael are warriors with armies of fighters loyal to them. Uriel is just a politician and probably wouldn’t stand a chance unless he offered something like a legendary apocalypse as a treat for crazed, bloodthirsty warriors.
Being the only human in the center of all this violence makes me feel like my fate is sealed. I probably have until the end of the voting before they kill me. I wonder how long that will be.
By the time my guards shove me through the chaos and up onto the raised stage, my insides are trembling and I’m fighting to keep my legs moving. I’m surrounded by a sea of frenzied angels, and I can’t see a way out.