of the verse that described the war in Heaven. He whispered it as the opposing forces faced off:
“And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels---.”
This was the battle Darrell Gene had dreamed of watching his entire life. It was one he’d been fighting his entire life, ever since the day that his father had stopped believing in God. Somewhere, deep inside, had always been the urge to do good, to follow the truth. But he’d always repressed it, opting instead for the easy way out. He’d chosen the same path his father had chosen after his mother left them for Jasper Simmons.
He’d listened to voices all his life and followed them. What he didn’t realize was that sometimes the loudest voice wasn’t always the one he should heed.
Darrell Gene tried to block out all the voices temporarily until the impending battle was finished. He didn’t want to be biased. He didn’t want to influence the outcome of the fight. Still, it was difficult. He thought of all the things he had done to the family across the street. In response, the rebel angels strained and pulled against an unseen tether, eager to wage war.
He thought of his father, and the church, and the life he had he had until his mother ruined it. He thought of all the Sundays they had attended services together, the nights of prayer meeting, the fellowship dinners. That life seemed so far away; it felt like someone else’s life. In some ways, it was. Darrell Gene was a different person now, but he knew it didn’t have to be that way.
He thought of Carl Beckett and the warmth and gentleness that radiated from the man. He thought of the promises of love and friendship. He thought of the possibility of a new life and a new way of looking at things.
It couldn't be that easy, could it?
In response to those thoughts, Heaven’s faithful on the opposite side of the chess board prayed and meditated with their eyes closed as they readied themselves to fight.
This wasn’t just some medieval board game that was about to take place. This wasn’t a battle for supremacy of Heaven, either-that had happened millennia ago. The war that was about to wage on Darrell Gene Rankin’s kitchen table was a war of the soul. It was one that would decide his fate and cement his future, and Darrell Gene was scared to death.
His palms were sweaty and his brow was beaded with perspiration. He chewed his thumbnail nervously as his life hung in the balance. It was time to let the battle begin.
With firm resolve, Darrell Gene released all of the holds in his mind, and watched as the two opposing wills clashed. The chess board was messy with sawdust and wood splinters. The rebels and the saints fought for Darrell’s life. Sabers clashed. Talons ripped through angelic flesh. Wings were ripped away. Battle axes mowed down opponents as if they were little more than blades of dead grass.
And blood covered the table.
Angel blood.
Darrell Gene watched it all with rapt fascination and fear. Although this is the way he’d chosen to determine which road he would travel, it filled him with dread to see that the rebels were winning.
“You should have known it would end this way.” The wingless angel brought his sword down on the head of a saint.
The comment filled Darrell Gene with an inexplicable anger, and without warning, he pushed away from the table in a rage and made a forceful swipe with his hand, clearing the kitchen table of figurines. The wooden characters clattered to the floor; most of them broke on impact.
The wingless angel had been splintered in half. His mouth, however, still worked.
“You’ll always feel the pull of the flesh,” the angel said. “It’ll never go away. You‘re one of us. Stop denying that fact.”
Darrell Gene silenced him with his foot and pressed down with all of his weight until there was little more than sawdust and splinters under his shoe.
He felt better.
But only a little.
Chapter 18
The battle with Cerberus left me feeling drained, light-headed, and sick, and Midnight didn’t fare much better. He had more than enough wounds to lick; Cerberus had bitten him in more places than I realized. The three-headed dog had injured me extensively too. Two of my ribs felt bruised, possibly even broken. My shoulder felt like it might have been dislocated, and my skin was on