Tropical Autumn

The Boeing 747 in which Shamira was traveling will take off from Baghdad at 11:48 pm — late, as is usual.

This time, it wasn't the airline employees' fault. On its trajectory, the plane would fly over Israel, whose airspace was being blocked two or three times a day due to invasions by Arab reconnaissance jets — coming mainly from Syria and Lebanon. Whenever this happened, fighter jets were called in to patrol the area, and the atmosphere of tension increased. For the first time since the Six Day War, there had been the threat of widespread conflict in the Middle East. The countries Arabs occupied by the United States rose up, and free Muslim nations formed an alliance against the Berlin League, the Western bloc headed by the USA and Europe. In Jerusalem, the number of terrorist attacks had also grown in equal proportion to the army's aggressions. Israel to the Palestinian territories. The only thing, according to experts, guaranteed the integrity of the Holy Land was the fact that it was located on sacred ground for the three religions — otherwise, they said the most pessimists, would have already suffered an atomic attack.

The aircraft was shaken by unexpected turbulence shortly after flying over the Dead Sea. The old lady sitting next to Shamira grabbed the armchair and kissed the crucifix. She was a nice lady, more than 70 years old, who had spent most of her time speaking about the lives of Christians in Iraq, but now she only said prayers. The commander had reported, through the amplifier, that the vibrations on board were the result of an air current, but the sorceress knew the region well and knew that this had nothing to do with the weather. Seconds later, the babies began to cry, and the mothers, impatient, were unable to calm them down. Even though she was aware of the mystical implications of the situation, the necromancer remained calm and placed her laptop on the table. She tried to turn on the device, but the battery failed, a sign that the fabric of reality was being shaken. The agitation she had been feeling in the mental plane reached its peak when they passed through Jerusalem, which for millennia had been an area where spiritual activity was intense.

Ten minutes later, everything calmed down and the children stopped shouting. The flight continued smoothly over the Mediterranean and made stops in Athens and Madrid, before crossing the Atlantic Ocean towards Rio de Janeiro. January, the final destination. When they landed in Spain, the plane was overcrowded. The elderly lady sighed relieved, thanked God for arriving safely, and said goodbye to Shamira, distributing thanks. The empty seat was occupied by a middle-aged man with fair skin and gray hair, dressed in a gray suit — a blasé and somewhat arrogant type.

The crew served dinner, and then the lights inside the plane dimmed. The sorceress didn't sleep. She turned on the personal lamp in her armchair and spent the whole night immersed in the laptop, studying and writing down everything she could about the upcoming global conflict. Next to the micro, she left open a copy of the Bible in Revelation 5,6, which read: "The opening of the six first seals." She tried to establish some connection between the political situation and the holy book, but she could not find anything concrete. Most of the things described there were nothing more than metaphors and allegories that could be interpreted in many ways. She felt frustrated, and when the sun rose in the immensity of the ocean, stopped working and napped for half an hour. She was awakened by the flight attendant, who shook her in the seat.

"Newspaper, magazine or headphones?" offered the flight attendant, dressed in a white silk shirt, closed by a blue linen jacket.

"No... thank you," replied Shamira, still bewildered by tiredness. "Just a cup of coffee, please."

After composing herself, the Enchantress of En-Dor noticed the clock.

2:11 pm. 12th day of March. Beginning of autumn in the southern hemisphere. Then, when the vision cleared, she stretched her neck and identified the newspaper's main headline, in the hands of her neighbor on the bench, who said the following:

"Berlin League launches offensive in Türkiye." And it continued: "Eastern Alliance admits to using nuclear weapons to defend their domains."

The plane shook again, but now the vibration was purely mechanical—the landing gear was being activated. She heard the sharp sound of the turbines sucking in gulps of air, and then the warning came over the loudspeaker:

"Attention, crew, prepare for landing. Local temperature 35 degrees."

Shamira had no problems clearing her luggage at customs, despite all the strange things she carried with her and the rusty sword she had unearthed in Iraq. She had international standard authorization for transporting ancient artifacts, issued by a dozen archaeology universities around the planet. She was a scientist, for all intents and purposes, a very ironic disguise for a sorceress. But it was efficient. Unlike Ablon, who tried to preserve his anachronism, remaining on the margins of mortal society, the necromancer was always informed about new technologies and used this to her advantage. She openly frequented the most public places, from colleges to dance clubs, with a purely didactic objective. Increasingly, she was surprised by man's changing capacity, with his ability to create, innovate, and adapt to more unusual situations. She came to the conclusion that no matter how long she lived, she would always be amazed at the fickle mind and passionate soul of human beings.

She left the customs section through an automatic double door, which opened into a large hall, with inclined metal columns that supported a glass roof. In front of her, separated by a frame of chains, a small crowd gathered, waiting for passengers. Tour agents held identification signs, and family members waited for relatives.

It was already past fifteen o'clock, and the afternoon sun was coming in obliquely through the glass roof, which folded into a wall that was also transparent. Outside, the paved street was full of the characteristic hustle and bustle of the airports, with their usual traffic of commercial cars, public buses, and hotel vans.

Disembarkation was at 2:37 p.m., but Shamira had spent at least twenty minutes filling out documents for clearance and waiting for bags on the conveyor belt. Now, free from bureaucracy, she looked around, looking for the Renegade Angel, but he was nowhere to be seen. Terrible fears ran through her mind, about the possibility that the fugitive had finally been found... and perhaps dead? But she soon remembered that, as an outcast, Ablon had learned to assume a discreet posture, and therefore, incredibly, sometimes human beings simply didn't see him. At first, it was intentional, but now it happened almost all the time, and the cherub no longer needed to make an effort to disappear into the scene.

The sorceress improved her gaze and located him, motionless next to one of the steel columns. It had already been more than a century, but he hadn't changed anything, except for his dark clothes. The evening rays, already weakened, gave a golden tone to his blond hair. The look was the same: expressive, determined, reckless. And the expression was one of undeniable satisfaction at finding the only person in the whole world he really cared about.

Ablon showed a smile — affable, welcoming. Shamira came close to him and placed her bags on the floor, on the dark marble. For a long moment, she just stared at him, in silence. The girl's face was a mask of disbelief, but also of relief. A minute later, she hugged him, excited.

"And you? It doesn't even seem true," she said, comforted. "It's hard to believe you're alive."

He smiled again.

"It gets easier. If I were dead, you would already know."

"It's likely. The way things are going in the spiritual world, I wouldn't be surprised if you received news of disagreements about you."

Ablon picked up the two suitcases on the floor — one handheld, the other larger — and carried them outside. Both crossed the lobby and exited through the automatic door.

"Really," he agreed. "Heaven and hell are preparing for war. That's why the spirits are so agitated. The fabric of reality is about to tear."

"Armageddon! So it's true. Finally, Judgment Day approaches," she was amused by her own words. "Look at me, I sound like one of those prophets speaking."

"They had their value," commented the renegade, nostalgic.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk and felt the scorching heat of tropical autumn. The street was buzzing with noise of engines, horns, and sprints.

"And what do you have to do with all this... I mean, with the end of the world? I thought you decided not to take part in celestial politics."

"Now it's different. Looks like the basement wants to make a deal with me. That's why you called me here, isn't it?"

"I need the protection of your enchantments."

"I thought you said things were easier," the woman replied, making her point clear. "Concern for the Renegade Angel."

"Both sides are mobilizing their troops, concluding alliances, arranging everything for the final battle. No one is worried about hunting me anymore. For the first time since the purge, I feel safe. You angels and demons have your own concerns."

"Still... I don't think it's hard for you to sleep with one of your eyes open," she warned, as a strength of mind expression.

"I never sleep," he replied, spontaneously. Shamira was a cautious woman. She had learned this with the renegade general himself.

At the end of the sidewalk, they arrived at the place where Ablon had parked his motorcycle. It was black in color, thick, matte tires, and chrome wheels and handlebars. The leather seat was long, making a speed bump for the passenger, still with room for luggage.

"Unusual transportation for a lady," noted the sorceress, relaxed.

"But in keeping with a renegade," replied the warrior, in the same informal manner.

The Last Renegade Angel

The angel and the sorceress stopped by the Hotel Montenegro, in order to unload their luggage, and then continued to a more airy place. Shamira had never traveled to Rio de Janeiro; she only knew the metropolis through photos and films, which is why she convinced the renegade to take her close to the sea, where he would reveal his plans. The city, coastal and rugged, is hot throughout the year, and the climate cools very little, even at twilight — an environment totally different from the Iraqi desert, with its freezing nights and unbearable early mornings.

At around 5:30 p.m., just before the start of rush hour, the motorcycle came to the center and maneuvered between cars heading towards the south, reaching the coast. Ablon and Shamira walked along the avenue by the sea to the end, where the motorway continues, circling the side of a rocky mountain. Halfway there is a tourist spot, a beautiful viewpoint close to the cliff, which displays one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world. From that place, they could see the entire Leblon and Ipanema beaches, which, together, form a cove, with its strip of sand ending in a boardwalk of Portuguese stones. Beyond the sidewalk is asphalt, and then countless tall buildings with glass balconies and canopies. Millionaires stand like concrete giants. Starting from the shore, towards the west, the land gradually tilts upwards, giving observers the false impression that the city is supported on flat ground. This is where much of the urban area is located.

In the extreme west, the horizon is cut out by a chain of green hills, on which are fixed numerous radio and TV transmission antennas. The highest point of this mountain massif is a sharp ledge called Pico do Corcovado, crowned by the impressive statue of Christ the Redeemer, with open arms.

Ablon stopped the motorcycle in a small parking area around the lookout. Shamira didn't hold herself back and walked to the stone wall. Ten meters below, sea waves crashed against the cliff, throwing splashes, and the sorceress stayed there for a few moments, calm, contemplating the marine spectacle. The renegade arrived soon after, bringing a bottle of mineral water, which he had purchased at a kiosk. He knew that the necromancer still harbored human needs, even though she had already learned to avoid her own death. She looked at the entire landscape, until her vision stopped far away, where Christ the Redeemer stood imposingly.

"Now I understand why you chose this city to await the Day of Reckoning."

"Sounds suggestive, doesn't it?" agreed the general, looking away from the statue. "But that's not it. I have the impression that when everything starts to fall apart, this will be the last place to disappear. Brazil is one of the so-called neutral countries, one of the states outside the line of conflict between the Berlin League and the Eastern Alliance."

"I think I missed something..." replied the sorceress, without quite understanding.

"I don't know what the end of the world will be like. I don't believe that stars will fall from the sky, or that the moon will turn into blood. What these prophecies indicate to us are signs. And these signs are evident."

Shamira looked at Ablon, seriously.

"Do you think the Apocalypse is approaching?"

"He's already started. There is no doubt. The four horsemen began their march."

"War, hunger, disease... we've seen this before. What makes you think this is different?"

He glanced over the hills. Beams of sun cut through the clouds, coloring the verdant slopes. It was a rare moment of peace, very reminiscent of ancient times. It was sad to think that everything—that the earth, the sky, the oceans—would soon be over.

"Humanity is corrupted, Shamira," he said, his expression more one of frustration than melancholy. "In the hearts of men, hope was supplanted by hatred."

"But not in all of them."

"As always, few will pay for the mistakes of many. It was like this in the flood, which destroyed Enoch and Atlantis. It was like this in Sodom and Gomorrah. And it will be like that at Armageddon. Would it happen sooner or later. The Wheel of Time cannot be contained. Only God himself has the power to move it. And, as we know, he is absent for now."

"The Wheel of Time..." murmured the necromancer, as if searching for something stored in the back of her mind. "You told me about her once."

"The Wheel of Time is a divine artifact. It was created by Yahweh with the aim of marking the continuation of the seventh day. When your cycle reaches the seventh day it will also be finished. The Most High will awaken, and the fabric of reality will fall completely. The two worlds, the physical and the spiritual, they will become one, and this will also be the beginning of the kingdom of God."

Shamira listened in silence, intent.

"This is what the sacred manuscript of the Malakins tells us," continued the general. "But it doesn't say that the end of days will be preceded by cruel and bloody episodes. It was humans who prophesied the Apocalypse in this way. Personally, I have always believed otherwise. I always thought it would awaken when the lands had reached plenitude, when peace reigned absolute. That's how I always wanted it to happen. But, after so long on earth, I stopped deluding myself and understood that the salvation of the soul is a gift for a few."

Ablon stopped talking and took a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant smell of the sea. The moon rose in the east, appearing to emerge from the ocean. Its light formed a trail that began at the horizon and only ended in the surf, close to the beach. The sorceress's mind was buzzing with so much information, but she remained silent, digesting the sincere words.

"Do you remember when I met her?" he said suddenly. "I once told you about the free agency and said that this was the ultimate prize granted by God to mortals."

"Yes..." replied the woman, simply.

"I don't think it needed to be like that. It was the lands that chose the path, they did your world. They decided on the path of death and went in their own lust. But..." he thought again. "I'm not talking this as an inquisitor, nor as a judge. I am not and never have been a role model. Also, I already made a lot of mistakes."

As he said this, he looked at her with gray eyes and continued tenderly:

"I remember that I was once at the gates of corruption. But, in the darkest moment, I had someone who rescued me from darkness."

"I just presented you with the options. You made your choice."

"Yes. Not everyone had the chance I had. Not everyone had someone to show them the way. That's why I don't judge them. Sometimes I think I'm partly to blame in this. Could have done more. Could have helped humanity, instead of walking in the shadows of the world, trying to reconstitute brotherhood. But regrets won't change anything. What is done is done."

The night was coming, stealthily. The tide receded, and the waves rolled back onto the sand.

"Very well," said Shamira, breaking the tension of the conversation. "So what does the Renegade Angel do? Do you want me? You talked about a deal."

"Lucifer sent Orion to bring me a message. It seems like the Morning Star wants me to join their ranks in this final war."

"So why do you need me? Is the Dark Archangel's protection not enough?"

"The real protection I need is against him. Lucifer already betrayed me once. I don't intend to accept his proposal, but I'm curious to hear what he has to tell me. That's why I decided to go visit him in hell."

"Look what you're going to do..." she warned. "Do you remember the last time you requested my magic for that kind of thing?"

"I never forgot. My body still hurts from the burns. That was reckless. But the times were different then. I was hunted back then, and there was a bounty on my head. Furthermore, I lightly invaded forbidden limits. It was natural that Lucifer's subjects expected a ruthless attitude. Now, however, I have been invited."

The renegade's arguments were convincing, and Shamira agreed with them. However, it continued to prefer that Ablon did not undertake that journey. She got up from the stone wall and, thoughtfully, walked a little, mentally researching the enchantments she kept up her sleeve. Yes, she had some rituals that could be useful.

"A trip to hell..." he pursed his lips, reasoning. "You know the dangers. Once there you will be vulnerable."

"I'm willing to take the risk."

"I know some spells that can give you limited protection. But if they want to end you, not all my power can preserve you."

"I prefer to think of your magic as a precaution. I do not believe that the Dark Archangel and his hordes really want to kill me. Not this time."

The necromancer still had her doubts.

"Why do you trust this so much?"

"Orion. He seemed to be telling the truth, and I trust him. Furthermore, if Lucifer is at the gates of war, it's very likely that he really wants my help. It would be practical for him to use me as a symbol. After all, I have always been the icon of resistance."

"That goes against all the propaganda he made in favor of hunting down renegades, don't you think? The devil put all the blame for his fall on you. You told me that yourself a long time ago."

"Yes, but the Morning Star knows very well how to shape situations in its favor. He's the biggest master of persuasion that exists. He's capable of turning even the worst enemy into a martyr. If you had known, you would know what I'm talking about. He has a tongue as sharp as a snake and the intelligence of a thousand strategists. It was not for nothing that he dragged a third of the winged people into his rebellion against the archangel Michael."

"Orion... the Fallen King of Atlantis," pondered the sorceress. "Yes, you have reason to trust him. But isn't Satan himself falling victim to his master's persuasions? The Satanists constitute the noblest order of demons, equivalent to the celestial seraphim."

"Perhaps. But, as I said before, it's a risk I'm willing to take. After so many centuries, finally, I feel ready for any challenge. I feel prepared to face Miguel in combat and then present weapons before God. But I will only be able to call the Prince of Angels to the duel when the fabric of reality falls. For now, my curse binds me to the physical world. So all I have left is to wait. Wait until all of the Apocalypse Seals are open and the membrane has dismantled."

The moon finally rose straight into the sky, and the cars on the avenue reduced their flow. The windows of the buildings glowed, and TV antennas swayed in the wind.

"We are all that remains of an era that was lost in oblivion, swept away by the same storm that devastated old Babel," declared the woman, wistfully. "I'll help you, general. I owe you that, and much more... I will always owe you something. But I don't agree with that. I think I am selfish, deep down... I don't want to lose him."

"You always expect the worst... and in a way I do too. And our way of reacting to the unknown, to the unpredictable future. But I've escaped death many times, and I think I can do it one last time."

"But what if I can't?"

"You yourself said that our era is over. We are living beyond our time. And I've been a lot further than I should go. I'm the last renegade angel. And upon me weighs the task of those who, one day, decided to accept my ideals. I can't disappoint them, sorceress."

It really can't, thought the necromancer. You have never forgotten them nor forsaken those you like. He saved my life and defended me many times. Afterwards, he defeated spirits, witches, murderers, and hunters. He escaped hell and defeated the envy of his enemies. Now walk your route to the final, for the most terrible of wars, for the ultimate convergence of all its virtues.

Yes, Shamira would help him. And she would do it with pride.

Night Interlude

Ablon and Shamira returned to the Hotel Montenegro shortly after nightfall. The landlord was drunk and had to make an effort to greet guests with a wave of the hand, muttering a few incoherent words before going back to dozing on the counter.

They went up to the room and settled in. Moments later, a storm engulfed the city, forming paths of water on the windowpane. There were no beds there, but the sorceress improvised a mattress with a blanket and pieces of canvas. When she finally stretched her body, she realized she was exhausted and remembered that she hadn't slept in almost two days.

She lay down, closed her eyes, and tried to relax. Before, however, she noticed Ablon sitting at the table, in the dim light, reading some ancient parchments. A pleasant sensation washed over her, one she hadn't felt in a long time. It was like being back in the cave, falling asleep under the protection of the renegade—always alert, always watching for any invasion. She was sure and certain that, as long as those gray eyes were watching, nothing bad would happen.

She fell asleep.

She woke up around midnight. It was still raining. Ablon was standing silently, glued to the window, examining the stillness of the street, the streetlights, the roofs of the buildings. She knew that expression—sharp, like an eagle in the nest—and feared the worst.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Shhhhh..." he signaled, indicating for her not to make any noise. The necromancer's blood ran cold at the perceived threat.

About three minutes passed until Ablon relaxed his posture, moving away from the window. He acted as if he had picked up a false alarm. The tension dissolved, and Shamira asked again:

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything is fine. I just had the impression that... I just thought that..."

"What?" the sorceress cut in.

"Nothing. It doesn't have to be anything. Go back to sleep."

She insisted some more.

"Maybe a hunting angel or a vengeful demon?" she asked, using a more relaxed tone to hide her nervousness.

"No. If any entity was nearby, I would have already noticed the vibrations of its aura."

Shamira's eyelids felt heavy. If she hadn't been so tired, she would have pursued the topic further, but lethargy dominated. She slept peacefully and never woke up again.

The Protection Ritual

Shamira spent the entire morning casting invisible charms and performing small rituals inside the room of Ablon's apartment. The aim was to convert the old warehouse into a sanctuary. A sanctuary is, by definition, an area tied to the physical plane where the fabric of reality is very thin, almost null. The softness of the membrane in a sanctuary allows it to tear more easily, and the result is that the supernatural effects at the affected point are produced much more effectively.

There are many ways to create a sanctuary. Each magical tradition, sect, or religion has its own methods for this. The path of necromancy, in particular, makes use of mystical objects and formulas to remodel the tissue. The preliminary incantations were contained in a very ancient book, with a leather cover and papyrus leaves, called the Grimoire of Nippur. A slimy preparation, special for this purpose, was used to delimit the chosen chamber—which extended from the door to the window, encompassing the entire room space.

There are rarer situations in which sanctuaries are created without any human intervention. This frequently occurs in places where saints or legendary characters are killed or where mystical entities make occasional appearances.

The size of a sanctuary is variable. They can be as small as a shrimp or as large as forests. Contrary to what many think, these mystical places can be tainted. There are intentional means of doing this, such as the use of unholy spells, but the simple trivialization of the place is more common. A cathedral that is demolished, transformed into a public square, and whose importance is forgotten soon returns to its initial level, and the fabric of reality reverts to its normal consistency.

Shamira's intention in creating a sanctuary there was to prepare the room for the performance of a truly powerful ritual. It would have to be strong enough to protect Ablon in hell, as demons are rarely fooled by cheap tricks. This time, she decided to use a little of the old magic—the forgotten magic, the magic of old Enoch—recorded in the pages of the ancient grimoire. The execution would leave her exhausted and unable to use her mystical abilities for an entire day, but it would be for a good cause.

The Enchantress of En-Dor completed her preparations late in the afternoon. She rested a little and satisfied herself with the Chinese food in little boxes that the renegade had bought. As always, Ablon accompanied her to dinner, although he didn't need to eat—no angel does. Sitting on the wooden floor, stripped down, they talked about frivolities, their trips to the East, and Shamira remembered the taste of authentic Chinese food from the Mandarin era, very different from the oily noodles.

"When are we going to start the ceremony?" asked the general, collecting the remains of dinner.

"Let's wait for the night. It is at these times that the spiritual world is most accessible. And I still need to finish the details."

After taking out the trash, the angel and the witch moved the desk and larger bookshelves aside, creating a clean area, a large empty space. On the old plank floor, Shamira drew a pentagram, a five-pointed star, using an ancient reddish clay, whose earth had belonged to the soil of Enoch. The clay alone was already loaded with mysticism, due to its legendary origin.

The pentagram was surrounded by inscriptions. At four of the five points, the girl positioned containers of pottery containing tiny portions of natural elements—one of them was filled with earth; the second contained water; from the third emanated fire; and the room let out white smoke. At the top, the necromancer fixed a dagger, her personal dagger of enchantment.

The stage was ready. The sun had died, without them noticing, obscuring the streets. The sky was clean, without clouds, and now it was the moon's shine—not the raindrops—that tinted the window, drawing silver shapes on the floor.

"We're in luck," warned the woman. "And it's a busy night in the spiritual world. I think we will be able to successfully complete the ritual. Are you ready?"

"No problem," replied the celestial.

She put aside her modern clothes and donned a simple, one-cut tunic. It was made of raw cotton and had an old appearance, but it was preserved. It had belonged to her first teacher in Canaan and remained intact thanks to the Sippar preparation. In one arm, she held the grimoire, and with the other hand, she gestured with her fingers.

"What we're going to do here is try to invoke two greater spirits. Their power is great, comparable even to the power of the celestials. Once invoked, we will have to bargain some of their essence, and with it, I will energize the dagger," she pointed to the knife lying on the pavement. "Only then will I complete the spell."

"Do you think it will be easy to convince them to give up their essence?"

"It's never easy. These spirits are very old, and over time, they become more arrogant. But I already have some experience with them."

"You are modest," commented the general. "What should I do?"

"Nothing, at least until I say otherwise. For now, just watch."

Ablon nodded, and the sorceress began to cast a spell. She repeated, out loud, the series of mystical runes contained in the book:

"Mayor Sidi! More Kurra! Mer Urulu! Mer Martu! Zi Dingir Anna Campa!" The intonation was strange and did not resemble any language known to humanity. It was part of a magical code, an occult language spoken only by sorcerers.

As the chant continued, Shamira began to sweat. It was then that something strange happened. The brightness of the moon, which had been cutting through the window, gradually disappeared, until everything outside was dominated by the most complete darkness, a terrible pitch, comparable to cosmic blackness.

"What is happening?"

"A momentary transfer to the ethereal plane. I'm opening the passage through the four gates. We, together with this room, are now crossing the borders of reality."

A ghostly cold filled the apartment. Nothing could be seen through the window: the buildings, the moon, the streetlights on the sidewalk... nothing—just darkness. It was as if the hall had been thrown to the ends of space, inhospitable and distant. Now the only source of clarity came from the bowl with fire, which burned at one end of the star design.

The necromancer stopped the recital, rested her head, and laid the heavy tome aside on a common box. The silence was absolute, but it didn't last long.

The general heard the sound of breaking wood. Suddenly, the floorboards arched upward. A foul-smelling creature forced its way out, destroying the floor within the area demarcated by the pentagram. If she weren't already so expert, so accustomed to the bizarre universe, Shamira would have been nauseated by the apparition.

The entity that emerged from the boards was a monstrous and deformed being. It resembled a mass of meat, sometimes black, sometimes greenish, with hundreds of small eyes spread across the surface of the body and dozens of mouths that bit the air. It moved slowly, using pseudopods of goo. The unbearable smell came from the secretion expelled by the flesh, oozing from open pores, full of pus.

Fearless, the girl walked to the magic circle, without going inside. She looked at the creature with authority. Her gaze was hard and austere, and her face was not defenseless.

"Baccarat!" she called the monster, in an obscure language normally used by corrupted spirits that roam in the depths of the ethereal.

The multiple eyes fixed on the necromancer, and the mouths opened, Dantesque.

"Sorceress of En-Dor, master of the art of necromancy, conjurer of many spirits. Baccarat is listening."

The copious lips were all articulated at the same time, producing a shrill voice.

"Baccarat, prince of the matter. I come to implore a condice of your essence for the realization of a protection spell."

The conx is a type of mystical unit used to measure spiritual energy.

The creature moved, spitting out the unwholesome odor.

"And who will receive the enchantment?" summoned the monster.

"Ablon, the Renegade Angel, expelled from heaven even before Lucifer's fall. The cherub who challenged the tyranny of the archangel Michael after the destruction of Sodom."

Quiet, a little further back, Ablon had the impression that some of Baccarat's eyes were watching him, analyzing him from head to toe. The angel's wings were folded, as always, fused to his back, imperceptible. Even so, his shadow on the wall showed the outline of his open wings. There is a confraternity of sorcerers, the Black Magicians, who seek the energy for their spells in the darkness. They often say that the shadow always reveals our true nature.

"His aura is powerful," the entity rambled, and then let out a ridiculous growl, followed by a silva.

"I don't think," the general whispered in the necromancer's ear, "that we're going to get anything out of this disgusting figure." He was starting to get impatient. Cherubim are fighters and little accustomed to diplomacy.

"Patience," suggested the woman. "The bargaining hasn't even started yet."

The entity roared again, sliding into the pentagram. His words were barely understandable, very scratched.

"Powerful aura... Baccarat wants the angel's essence. Essence for essence, that's the exchange."

"But this is not an exchange, Baccarat," challenged the Sorceress of En-Dor, casting a dangerous look.

Immediately, the spirit emitted a sharp scream of hatred and recognized the ruse. Excess secretion coming out of her body indicated a state of anger, and the creature advanced in fury against the necromancer. But he stopped when he reached those in the circle, as if some invisible wall trapped him inside. In a reflex, the general advanced, took a step forward to protect his friend, but she stopped him, indicating that she was not in danger.

"You're trapped in the Pentagram of Bethor, Baccarat, if you haven't noticed yet."

Vulnerable and unable to cross the demarcated area, the entity writhed, and more water flowed from its body—a liter of the goo. He spat out a torrent of infamous noises, cursing the sorceress.

"Sorceress... you will burn in Xahra's fire when I free myself."

She smiled mischievously.

"Don't swear, 'prince.' I might decide to leave it there forever," she threatened, and then resumed her bargain. "I'm just looking for a bilateral solution"—and she paused for her mind to calm down. "Would you be able to forget this hatred if I gave you a drop of the renegade's blood?"

"Blood... it's just matter," growled the creature.

"You are the master of the matter. I'm sure you'll find a valuable use for the vital fluid. What I'm asking for is a condex of your essence. In return, I offer you freedom, plus the boiling plasma of the fugitive general."

Baccarat had no way out. He had been cornered, cheated, deceived by a witch—a kind of quite humiliating situation for such an influential spirit. But despite the unfavorable circumstances, he came to the conclusion that he would not lose much by accepting the offer.

By the grunting and irregular movements of the pseudopods and the agitation of the tiny mouths, Shamira understood that he had accepted the exchange, even grudgingly. And what other option did he have?

"Ablon, make a shallow hole in your finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the pentagram," indicated the necromancer, offering the cherub an enchanted needle. "But don't step inside the circle, or the protective seal will be broken."

The warrior angel looked at the entity, intrigued, and hesitated to give him his blood, but his friend comforted him.

"Don't worry. He has no effective power over his avatar."

Resigned, Ablon pressed the tip of the needle and released a red drop onto the floor, near the monster. Baccarat writhed and uttered an unholy moan of devilish pleasure as he tasted the precious celestial fluid with his skin. When, finally, there was nothing left to suck, the monster slipped back into the hole, and the sprung boards straightened out, as if they had never been ravines.

The dagger above the pentagram burst into flames, but it did not melt. The fire was violet in color, different from the normal burning, and basically spiritual. The knife was energized, finally, with the essence of the creature, but one conx alone was still not enough.

"I need to take advantage of the fact that the tissue is still flexible to call the next entity," he warned, Shamira straightening her tunic.

Without wasting much time, the sorceress walked to the suitcase and took out a parchment engraved with magic formulas. They were inscriptions as powerful as those in the old grimoire, but the design was very different, probably developed by some European culture. The contours of the letters so straight, but more circular. All the characters were connected by curves, giving the impression of forming a single pictogram. The necromancer analyzed the document carefully and began reading.

The spirit took a while to appear, and Ablon thought it would never come again. The more evolved an ethereal being is, the more distant he is from the carnal universe—and therefore less accessible. The entities corrupted are very dependent on the energy of human beings, so it is easier to find them wandering, lost beyond the fabric, than fixed in their singular domains. The guest, consequently, however, was just the opposite.

To attract the next creature, Shamira had to recite the spell several times. When she was already exhausted, almost without strength, a golden luminosity appeared ahead, floating one meter above the sky circle. The spirit came in the form of a beautiful spectrum of light, which shone in copper tones. When observing him, the Renegade Angel distinguished arms and legs and also the head, but the face was dazzled, invisible in the light.

The sorceress dropped the parchment, tired, and almost fell to her knees, but the renegade supported her. The exaggerated exertion had robbed her of all her vigor, and she needed to breathe, first and foremost.

As Shamira composed herself, the entity spoke. Her voice was feminine, soft, and musical, like a lovely fairyland melody.

"What do you bring me, sorceress?" hissed the image. "A celestial... I can feel your aura pulsing. A cherub... Sixth cycle. Angels like him don't usually visit the physical plane. What is he doing here, herald?"

Ablon opened his mouth to respond, but before he said a word, the creature already replied:

"You are a renegade angel, and you are stuck with your avatar."

"If she already knew, then why did she ask?" whispered the general to the necromancer.

"She didn't know until she read his thoughts. Got the answer on the tip of her tongue, as soon as you formulated it in his mind. Her name is Korrigan, Celtic goddess of great wisdom."

The spirit resumed its speech. She had already understood, through her divinatory powers, everything that Shamira desired and the real objective of that ritual.

"The celestials are at war," began the deity, prophetically. "Armageddon, as the angels call it, it's very close now. We, the spirits, do not want the devastation of the planet. That's why the spiritual world is so agitated. My essence, as needed, is already in the dagger."

"And what else?" thought Shamira, sure that Korrigan could hear her. "You wouldn't help me, grace... Neither evolved spirits nor ethereal gods are so altruistic. What do you want as a bargain?"

"All I want is the preservation of both worlds," maneuvered the image. "The renegade general... He is the one who holds the option of the future in the palm of his hand, the key to locking away celestial greed. He will prevent Armageddon from being completed," she determined.

"But this is not and has never been my intention," questioned Ablon. "When the Apocalypse ends, the membrane will be shredded, and then I will rise to the clouds, to challenge the tyrant Michael. God, in the end, will wake up and punish the wicked. Even if I die in battle, the Prince of Angels will be condemned for having created the horror and disrespecting the Father's will. Armageddon is, for me, the final redemption."

"And how can you be so sure that Yahweh will really wake up?" proposed the entity.

"So it is written in the Book of Life," he replied, automatically.

"Have you ever seen this book?" she instigated, and the celestial pondered. The Book of Life was a mystical tome, given to Michael by the Creator, which recorded the history of the world. There would be contained all the sequence of the seventh day, from the making of man to the Last Judgment. But only the archangels accessed it.

The spirit floated to the edge of the pentagram. Korrigan could track thoughts, memories, and emotions and interpret your values.

"Not all things happen as we plan, warrior. Now, at this very moment, an army of angels is leaving the Fifth Heaven and moving to the Fortress of Sion, in the ethereal plane, where the archangel Michael awaits the beginning of the great battle. Whether the Heavenly Prince will indeed be punished by the Shining One, it doesn't seem strange to you that he is waiting so anxiously for the conclusion of this war? What would be his interest in promoting Armageddon?"

The Renegade Angel swallowed his protest and remained silent, worried. The Celtic deity had proposed a complicated question—and an extremely important one. How had he been blind? For centuries, he had never reasoned about it!

"And what else do you see, spirit?" thought the cherub. "What else can you tell us about the plans beyond?"

"All I see is the twilight of time, a scorched earth, destroyed by humans and angels. I see an impasse, the most fundamental of dilemmas."

"When many have already died, and only ashes cover the face of the earth, you will have to resolve a crisis and choose between divinity and humanity."

"I don't know if I understand. Why is my choice so important?"

"I wouldn't know how to say it, nor do I think I should. Your nature is upright, but there will be a day when you will decide for the world. And everything I know."

"I didn't expect so much responsibility."

"You have always been a rebel," stated the entity. "But living on the edge of the world is much more easy than governing it. Your time as a wanderer is over. Sooner or later, you will have to return to battle, appear to enemies, and assume your position. The Apocalypse has already begun. The last sign, the Seventh Seal, has just been opened. Now only the Seven Trumpets separate us from terminal destruction."

Rarely, even in paradise, had Ablon been enlightened by so much shrewdness. Now, strangely, the universe around him seemed to make more sense, and his perspective on many things began to change. He did not have the ability, alone, without the use of magic, to penetrate the ethereal plane, and he did not have any idea what was going on there. But the spirit had brought precious information about the movement of celestial troops.

The musical sound ended, and abruptly, the supernatural light went out. Korrigan's ethereal presence fell apart, disappearing from the pentagram. For a while, Shamira and Ablon remained silent, stunned, still unable to realize the importance of everything they had heard.

The apartment's window lit up, reflecting the mundane light from the electric poles and bringing them back to common reality. The outline of the buildings stood out in the landscape, and a siren in the distance confirmed the return.

"Are we back?" asked the renegade.

"To the material plane? Yes."

"And the enchantment? Was it completed?"

"No. Not yet. I will use the energized dagger to cast the spell."

From then on, the sorceress knew exactly what to do. The difficult part was over. And it's true that I never had tested this ritual before, but most complex spells are performed a few times, especially these days when there are so few wizards in the world.

Shamira reached for the dagger, at the upper end of the seal, and took it between her fingers. Afterwards, she rotated her heels and returned to the presence of the angel.

"Extend your arm. This is going to hurt a little."

He stretched out his right arm. Committed, the woman used the dagger to mark a rune on the lower part of his friend's forearm. The blade burned when it touched the skin, allowing dark smoke and producing a tiny scar, which outlined the inscription.

"This hurts more than a normal wound," said the general, proving the distress of the wound.

"The dagger is enchanted. The cut is affecting not only your physical carcass, but also your spiritual body. Flesh and spirit are being affected," and she drew the blade away. "Now show me the other arm."

The cherub extended his left forearm, and Shamira inscribed on it a second rune, different from the first, but following similar iconographic patterns. They certainly belonged to the same magical code.

The sorceress finished marking the last rune and took a deep breath, exhausted. She dropped the knife, and the gun lost its shine. The spirits' energy had been consumed, and the spell closed. The natural elements within the ceramic pots no longer existed, taken away by the force of witchcraft. The red clay dried, and all the magic formulas drawn in the circle were now blurred or illegible.

"The spell is complete," the woman announced, panting. Some rituals require too much energy, and that was at the top of the list.

Ablon looked at the burns on both arms. He felt the power of the inscriptions on his own skin, but he didn't understand its usefulness.

"These injuries will heal at the same rate as a normal human," warned the sorceress. "Unfortunately, you will not be able to use your angelic powers to regenerate them. After this, only a dark mark will remain, like a tattoo, which will stay engraved on your body until the rune takes effect."

"And what is the power of these runes?"

"Each of them has its function. The first, engraved on the right arm, is the body rune. It will spare you from a mortal wound."

"If I am killed, will it bring me back?"

"Yes, but it will only work once. After that, the rune will disappear, and you will be vulnerable again. The second rune, marked on the left arm, works in a similar way: the mind rune. It will preserve your mind against any psychic attack, such as forgetfulness, attempts to dominate, and reading of thoughts. No matter how strong your attacker's power, the spell will protect you."

The renegade smiled. He was satisfied with the result of the ritual, but his main joy was seeing how much her friend had evolved, learned, and specialized during all those years. She was without a doubt the most fascinating woman he had ever met and an excellent practitioner of the magical arts. She was intelligent and beautiful, wise and attractive.

"I think I'm well protected. This ritual is much more efficient than expected."

"Yes... But don't forget, each rune only acts once, and no more."

Magic is the most complex of all activities in the world, the most stimulating and rewarding. However, angels and demons cannot use it, so they will never truly understand it.

A golden ray entered through the window. A new day was dawning.

"Is it daytime yet?" the general was surprised. "I thought..."

"Time passes faster on the ethereal plane," recalled the necromancer.

"Ah, yes, of course," reminded the warrior. "It's been a long time since I left Haled. The ethereal subjects escape me."

Shamira was devastated.

"Now I need to rest and sleep. I don't think I'll wake up before sunset."

She staggered, and the renegade followed her to the bed. He stayed by her side for about ten minutes and listened as she whispered, before finally blacking out.

"What do you think Korrigan meant when she said that the Seventh Seal has already been opened?" The celestial's attention was lost in the cloudy sky, through the window.

"She meant that the war starts today."