The Darkest Fall

by Ripley Proserpina

  One more step and the man paused. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep and calm. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His gaze went to her hands and Lucia glanced down. She’d been holding her notebook in front of her, both hands gripping it like a shield.

  This close, there was no similarity to Armaros. He was shorter, but broad. His hair was blonde, but pulled low in a ponytail, pieces escaping and grazing his chin. In one hand, he held a leather portfolio. “Professor Dieter told me I could find you here. I’m Aaron Fisher, the new Western Civilization professor. You’re supposed to TA for my grad class.”

  “Oh!” She had an email somewhere about him. Dieter, her mentor, set her up with this guy who’d taken over, last minute, for an ancient professor who recently had a stroke. Aaron Fisher had been hired for the rest of the year. “Right,” she continued. “I have a stack of essays for you on my desk.”

  “Excellent,” he smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling.

  Indicating the door with her head, Lucia led them out of the class. As her heart settled to a steady rhythm she became aware of Aaron’s stare on her. Peeking to the side from time to time, her irritation began to grow. “What are you looking at?”

  His cheeks flushed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Were you on vacation?”

  Touching her peeling nose gingerly, she shook her head. “Family emergency in Italy.”

  “Italy?” he asked in excitement. “Where?”

  “Palmero,” she lied.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  “Mostly.”

  “That’s good,” he mused, then, “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Confused, Lucia stopped. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I met you about five minutes ago, and you’ve twice given me a ‘What you talkin’ about Willis,’ look.”

  God. She had. His stares and questions grated on her nerves, and she’d jumped down his throat, unfairly taking out her anger on this innocent, and soon-to-be-overworked, adjunct professor.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  He smiled and shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Forget about it. Or better yet, make it up to me.”

  “I’ve already done your grading. Which class do you want me to teach? The eight a.m.? Friday?”

  Laughing, he raked his hand through his hair. “No. No class. Coffee?”

  “Huh?” He wanted her to get his coffee? “Okay, fine. How do you like it?”

  His face flushed and he shook his head. “No. I mean, go out for coffee with me. To make up for biting my head off.”

  “What? Oh.” Shaking her head, she started to walk away. “No. Thank you.”

  In two strides, he’d caught up with her. “It’s not forbidden. I’m not grading you or have any influence over your dissertation. I don’t sit on your committee; there’s no reason you can’t.”

  “I can’t,” she replied, wishing she could walk faster to get him his papers and then bury herself in books in her favorite corral in the library.

  “I don’t know anyone.”

  She stared at their feet: her winter boots, thick rubber soled, his fancy hiking boots. “You’ll meet lots of people. I’ll introduce you to some.”

  “You’re the first person my age I’ve met.”

  “You’re older than me,” she countered.

  “Ouch.”

  Lucia stopped, her ribs aching and pressed her hand against her side. “I’m sorry. I was dumped, like—” she did some mental math, “four days ago. I don’t want to go to coffee with anyone right now.”

  “Ah.” Aaron nodded, face smug. “Makes sense.”

  “Excuse me?” Despite her pain, Lucia was two seconds from smacking the guy.

  “I came on too heavy. I apologize. Can you agree to maybe going to coffee with me in a few weeks?”

  Something about his eager face and the way he’d kept his sense of humor as she verbally eviscerated him made her grin, but she shook her head. “It’s not a few weeks sort of thing…” She would never get over Armaros. There was no coffee with any guy in her future.

  Screwing up his mouth, he nodded before shrugging. “We’ll see.” He checked his watch and widened his eyes. “Crap. I’ve gotta go.” Hand to his head, he saluted her.

  “What about your papers?”

  “Keep them,” he called. “You can give them to me when you bring me my coffee. Two sugars and cream.” He held up two fingers. “Two!”

  Shaking her head, she watched him disappear into a throng of students. What the hell?

  Armaros

  The wind blew Lucia’s curls across her peeling forehead, and she brushed them back from her face while she stared after the man who’d flirted with her.

  From his place, a few feet away, Armaros had heard every word and watched every emotion on Lucia’s face. Her irritation, annoyance, confusion, sadness.

  This was what he was now. A voyeur. Sneaking peeks at the woman who owned him before hurrying back to Hell to be with Delia. In the cold, Lucia shivered, reaching into her pocket to pull out a knitted hat and jam it on her head.

  Get out of the cold, he willed her. But she didn’t.

  Seeing a nearby bench, she walked over and sat, leaning back and staring up at the grey sky. Snowflakes floated down, landing on her cheeks and melting. Catching in her eyelashes. As the flakes fell more steadily, she closed her eyes, keeping her face tipped up.

  Armaros moved closer, reaching out a hand before he could stop himself. With no physical form, she couldn’t feel his touch, or sense his nearness. He could jump up and down, screaming his love to her, and she’d never hear him.

  She was fully purged of any trace of him. Nothing lingered on her skin or in her soul. To a demon, she was as interesting as any other college student.

  He didn’t have long. A few stolen moments. Any more time and he could catch something’s attention, undoing all the work both he and Hanielle had done to make her tabula rasa. A blank slate.

  Inside him, a clock ticked down the seconds. Lucia’s eyes remained closed, and to his horror, tears snuck from beneath her closed lids.

  She let them spill for a moment before her mittened hands wiped them away and she opened her eyes.

  Wanting to be closer, he knelt in front of her. With everything inside him he wanted her eyes on him, but she stared at her hands.

  Look at me, please.

  Time was up. His body jangled with awareness. He couldn’t stay, but he couldn’t leave her. Not looking the way she did, the way he made her look.

  Better devastated than dead. It was the reminder he needed. He stepped back from her, and back again, disappearing even though she never knew he was there.

  Lucia

  “Hey.”

  Lucia touched the edge of the manuscript in front of her, one white gloved finger carefully curling around the page and turning it. With her other hand, she took photos of the beautiful illustrated Bible with her phone. “Hi, Aaron.”

  “Dieter told me you changed your dissertation.”

  Lucia used her thumb to zoom in on the face of the soul burning in Hell and took a picture. “Yup.”

  “Dante? Quite a switch from pre-Roman England.”

  “It is.” Heat warmed her neck as Aaron put his chin on her shoulder, gazing at the page she was studying. It burned uncomfortably, as if every cell in her body cringed from the unwanted touch. “Do you mind?”

  “Prickly today, aren’t we?”

  She stepped back, making sure to step hard on his toes before removing her glove.

  “Ouch!”

  “What do you need?” she asked, not falling for his act.

  He smiled. For the past few weeks, she and Aaron had worked together nearly every day. A talented teacher, he was, unfortunately, a disorganized mess. His assignments were complicated, and Lucia spent more time grading and making sense of his rubrics than she did for any other professor she assisted.

  In addition, after two weeks of slogging t
hrough her dissertation, she abruptly decided to drop her focus and do something completely different. She’d decided to focus on the angels’ fall from Heaven and its portrayal in various cultures. The cross-disciplinary nature of her new topic meant finding a new professor, one in the Religion department, to agree to be on her doctoral committee, and start from scratch. Three years of research and writing was thrown out the window.

  But it made her feel closer to Armaros while simultaneously keeping her too busy to think about him and Delia.

  Aaron stared at her and she gave him her best impatient face. “What?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she rolled her eyes and turned to the librarian at the Special Collections desk. “Vinnie? I’m done.”

  “That was fast,” the man behind the counter observed, reaching for his own inspection gloves and the metal edge box used for storing and preserving the old book. “I thought I’d have to kick you out again.”

  “Someone—” she pointed over her shoulder, “—is distracting me.”

  “Probably needs you to grade something,” Vinnie mused.

  Aaron snorted, but smiled when he met her gaze. “Actually, I don’t. I wanted to point out, it’s been a few weeks. Ready for coffee?”

  It was like he stabbed her in the heart. The impulse to curl around herself, bend at the waist and howl, raced through her. Somehow, she stayed upright, but when she searched for the words to answer, she couldn’t find them, and instead shook her head.

  Walking quickly to the doors, she unhooked her jacket from the coat rack and shoved her arms through the sleeves. Her hat was in her pocket and she pulled it out, shoving it onto her head before swinging her backpack onto her back and hurrying out of the library.

  “Lucia, wait!” Aaron called, but she ignored him. The only thing she wanted was to get away from him. She was acutely aware of how much time had passed, and how each passing day her separation from Armaros, and Delia, hurt more and more. Not a moment went by that wasn’t interrupted by a memory.

  A bunch of freshmen were shoving snow down each other’s coats, and she thought of how Delia would laugh at them. Between the two of them, they could probably overpower Armaros. He’d let them.

  “Lucia, I’m sorry.” Aaron grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Hey. Really. I’m sorry.”

  White clouds puffed from her mouth, she hadn’t realized she was walking so fast. Out of breath, she panted while Aaron moved in front of her. Glancing up at him and then away, she focused instead on the freshmen.

  “Hey,” he whispered, and chucked her under the chin. Immediately, she jerked her face away and he held up his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you’re joking,” she began, finally meeting his eyes, “and you think you’re being funny, but I’m really not ready. I’ll be your friend, Aaron, but no more touching. No more flirting. I’m not there, and I probably never will be.”

  The wind picked up, howling past her ears and she wrapped her arms around her waist. His face changed, and for a second, she thought his eyes flashed angrily before the fire banked. “This guy really did a number on you.”

  The urge to defend Armaros hit her hard. “He didn’t do anything to me. I loved him.”

  “You’re loyal.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Doesn’t seem like he deserves your loyalty.”

  “It’s not about loyalty.” And she really didn’t want to keep talking about it.

  “He left you, Lucia. Remember that. Your pining for him means nothing to him.”

  His words made her stumble, and she whipped around. “Aaron. You’re a nice guy, but if we’re going to be friends, you need to stop talking about this. I don’t ask you about your personal life.”

  “Why don’t you? I don’t mind talking about it.”

  Lucia threw up her arms and strode away. Behind her, he hurried after her. “I had this girlfriend, Sherry. When we broke up, she stole my cat. Or maybe, I should say, she stole the affections of my cat. Little traitor wanted to go with her. I could see it in his yellow eyes.”

  “Cats are notoriously mercenary. She probably made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  Aaron chuckled. “Probably.” Shaking his head, he sighed. “All right, Lucia. No more flirting. Promise.”

  “Good.”

  “So, I’ll see you later? We have the student presentations tomorrow. I need you to temper my grading curve.”

  “Sure,” she agreed, knowing if she didn’t show up to class, all the students would fail. Aaron had unattainable expectations.

  Needing to get away, get her head screwed on straight before she tried to do anymore work, Lucia gave him a quick wave and hurried away. She could sense his eyes on her, burning a hole in the back of her head and raising the hairs on her neck.

  The library was the best place to be alone. If she went back to the history building, someone would have a task for her, or students would drop by. The library was her safe place, her best bet for solitude.

  Ignoring the confused gaze of the security guard who checked her ID, she beelined for the stairs and the third floor. A 1970’s monstrosity, the library was three floors of bunker-like architecture. Windows were long and narrow, and huge concrete columns made painful obstacles for anyone walking with their nose in a book.

  The third floor was the dimmest, darkest floor. Avoided by everyone except the kids who wanted to make-out, the study corrals were often empty. Lucia’s favorite was in a back corner, tucked between two narrow windows. She’d moved her chair to face the window, propping her feet on the wooden molding along the floor.

  Her corral, when she got there, was empty. Dropping her bag on the ground and flinging off her hat and jacket, she fell into her chair and dropped her head onto the desk.

  This sucks. There wasn’t enough work in the world to distract her sometimes, and right now, she missed Delia and Armaros.

  What did Armaros tell Delia? Did the girl think she’d been abandoned?

  Delia had chosen her, and Lucia was happy to have been chosen. It didn’t matter if her plans were shot to hell. Raising Delia was a challenge, and one she accepted. In no time, her mind conjured Delia’s image. Pointed chin. Red eyes. Blonde hair. Thin shoulders and arms.

  Closing her eyes, Lucia tried to remember Delia’s voice. To her horror, she couldn’t. She could remember her face covered in ice cream. She could remember things Delia said, but for the life of her, Delia’s voice escaped her.

  In the monastery, they’d had a slumber party while waiting for Armaros to return to them. They’d jumped on the feather bed, flipping from one end to the other. In her mind, she could see Delia laughing, but the way she sounded? There was a blank.

  Lucia covered her mouth with her hand, trying to smother the sob threatening. Never before had her experience felt more like a memory.

  And it was only going to get worse. Without Armaros and Delia, she was bound to forget things. What if she forgot how Armaros smiled? What if she forgot how he smelled? What if she forgot the way he felt under her palm?

  Her hands went to her throat, so tight, it was like she was choking. I don’t want this. I can’t live like this.

  It was something to consider; something she never let herself imagine before. Oblivion. It would be blissful. No pain. Everything forgotten, not because time had passed but because there was nothing.

  Holy crap! What was wrong with her? She couldn’t seriously contemplating…she couldn’t even think the word.

  Wouldn’t it be nice not to hurt anymore? Negative thoughts intruded on her self-talk, and she fought them, pushing them away. Maybe Delia didn’t count on her, and Armaros had left her, but her parents and aunt loved her and they would be heartbroken if something happened to her.

  Digging through her backpack, she found her computer and took it out. Somewhere in her life, she would find some control. Pens, pencils, phone, notebook. Each item placed just so. Her only focus was on the task at hand. Each time her sorrow welled up, she wrote fast
er.

  When she finally peered up from the computer screen, it was dark outside, nearly midnight. The library closed at one, and she’d managed to work herself to the point of exhaustion. Mission accomplished.

  Armaros

  “You’re mopey,” Delia told him between bites of noodles. She held her chopsticks in one hand, head tilted, mouth open to catch each strand. Slurping and sucking, broth splattered on her chin and Armaros leaned over to wipe it off.

  “I am not mopey. I’m quiet,” he answered. He was doing his best to be present and live in the moment. It wasn’t fair to Delia if he crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head, or the Fallen equivalent: indiscriminately burning lesser demons to ash. She needed someone who was tuned in, a participant in her life.

  Her chopsticks fell into her soup with a plunk and she sighed, cupping her chin in her hand. Today they’d poofed to Chinatown in New York City. The streets were busy, and Delia’s face had shined as they window shopped and shop-shopped. Her blonde hair was pulled back, tucked into a bun and kept in place with black lacquered sticks dangling with jade beads. He bought her delicate black shoes decorated with a red rose on the toe, which she had to wear immediately. At her feet was a bag containing a good luck cat, a mandarin collared jacket, and box of tiny crocheted dolls.

  In Armaros's pocket was a box holding a pair of antique enamel earrings. Swirling blues and greens hung from delicate gold hooks. Sipping his tea, he slipped his hand into his pocket, searching for the tiny wooden box. It was stupid, he knew, to buy Lucia a gift he’d never give her. His fingers grazed another item in his pocket.

  Lucia’s necklace. The one he bought her in France. He’d found it on the stone floor of the monastery, the chain sliced and then soldered from Hanielle’s heated blade. He kept it with him now, and a hundred times a day he wrapped it around his finger, savoring the cool metal and knowing it had once rested against Lucia’s skin.