Mercy (4) – Fury

by Rebecca Lim

  There’s an abrupt sensation of coalescence, and I’m flung out of contact with Ryan’s body. The instant I come to, shaking and swearing to myself that I will never again do this thing to another living creature, Ryan takes a great, heaving breath.

  His dark eyes fly open and he chokes and claws at the rigid muscles of his neck, at the place where I laid my hand upon him.

  I don’t even think, I just pull him to me with trembling hands and bury my face in his dark hair. I’m holding him to me so tightly that the sound of his heartbeat, the murmur of his quickening blood, could be my own.

  Thank you, I say silently and with reverence. Thank you.

  He smells of rain and smoke and leather, and it’s the uncanniest thing, but being this close to him, having somehow personally wrested him from Azraeil’s grasp, I can feel his life force. I’m almost intoxicated by it.

  It’s something I never felt when I was cast into Carmen and Lela, all the others. I never got a real sense of the peculiar human energies of all the people around me. But now, in Ryan, I can somehow … read it, or hear it, like music. It’s singing out of him — who he is; what he is.

  He’s alive. He’s so alive.

  Two walls meeting to my right form a sheltering angle and I lean into it, taking Ryan with me, still held fast in my arms. He’s retching and shuddering, and I remember how it was when I was trapped inside Lela’s dying body and the Archangel Gabriel gave me a personal reminder of the evils of possession. It felt like live current moving through me, as if I was touching eternity. How must it have seemed to Ryan?

  It’s a long time before he can do anything except breathe with a raw sound, like someone who has survived a raging fire. All I can do is hold him and measure the passing seconds by the beating of his heart.

  Finally, Ryan pushes away slightly, though he does not try to break my hold. I help him sit up, before reluctantly letting him go. This touching thing could get to be habit-forming, and the last thing I need now is a new addiction.

  My left hand no longer burns with the mark of Luc’s betrayal. For an instant, I’m mesmerised by the sight of my own skin, my own fingers — how long it’s been since I’ve really seen them and felt as if they were a part of me. They are as unmarked and smooth as fired porcelain. I’m reminded with a jolt of Carmen’s eczema-scarred wrists, Lela’s small hands, Irina’s slender, tapered claws. I’ve left them all behind me now, truly.

  Ryan breaks my reverie by raising his head to face me at last. His eyes are pain-filled. He looks at me for the longest time; studying my features, my glowing, strong-limbed form. He told me, once, that he kept a picture of me in his wallet — something a sketch artist put together on the strength of Lauren’s description. But he’s never really seen me, the real me. He’s only ever known me as a sharp-tongued presence, a wise-cracking ghoul, inhabiting a stranger’s body. Is he … disappointed?

  But there’s awe in his expression, and a dawning gladness. There’s something else, too, in his eyes. Some kind of new-found awareness that was never there before.

  I wonder what he saw when he journeyed through the valley of the shadow of death. Whether he witnessed things that cannot be reasoned away. The path, for every person, is different, they say.

  We sit staring at each other, side by side, our backs to the rough stone. I focus solely on Ryan, on his face. It’s weird, but so long as I look at him, the feeling that I’m about to splinter apart, seems to lessen.

  ‘What …’ His voice is like something carried back on the wind from the afterlife. ‘What just … happened? It felt like I was …’

  ‘On fire?’ I say quietly.

  He nods, wiping the blood from his mouth with the heel of one hand. ‘From the inside.’ He struggles to swallow, grimacing when it causes him pain. ‘I died, didn’t I? I was d—’

  I put a hand to his lips to stop him saying more, in case Azraeil should be reminded of how he was cheated and think to return.

  Ryan turns his face into my palm. I want so badly to trace the line of his mouth with my thumb, but I quickly let my hand fall before I can give in to weakness.

  ‘It takes a lot to heal someone,’ I reply cautiously. ‘And I don’t have a great track record at healing things, so cut me some slack.’

  ‘You saved me?’ His voice is raw. ‘You mean you were responsible for that … that …’ He inhales sharply at the memory of the pain and his fingers curl involuntarily where they rest upon his knees. When he turns his gaze back on me his eyes are almost accusing. ‘That was … you?’

  I say gently, ‘Like I told you before, I’m not a “regular” girl, Ryan. And seeing as how I almost killed you, I figure we’re about even now.’

  He coughs as he pulls himself more upright against the wall, and that familiar fringe of straight, dark hair falls into his eyes.

  ‘All I can remember is a bunch of steeples and …’ he frowns, ‘people? Am I right? Were there people up there? All rushing up to meet us, then blam, I hit something. Lights out. Then I wake to find you watching over me. Like some kind of angel …’

  He looks at me sideways, deliberately casual, to gauge my reaction.

  As I look down, discomfited by the intensity of his gaze, a strand of my own straight, dark hair falls across my face. Ryan bridges the gap between us, loops it gently behind my ear, briefly tracing down the line of my jaw as if he can’t help himself. His touch is so shattering, so damned human, that some cold, hard part of me feels as if it is giving way.

  ‘You feel so real,’ he rasps.

  Self-preservation is instinctual in me now and I move out of reach, warning him raggedly, ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Or what?’ He sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. It’s so cold in here that his breath streams out white, like a cloud, or a soul departing.

  ‘You know, I’ve had my own freaky theories about you for some time now,’ he murmurs. ‘I went away and did my research like you said to, between dealing with a mountain of self-pity and anger and … grief.’ He shoots me another glance. ‘I don’t know how it’s possible … how you’re even possible. You’ve made me question everything I’ve ever believed in. I deserve a little more … clarity.’ His voice is strained. ‘I think I’ve, uh, earned it.’

  Warily, from the safety of my corner, I meet his eyes.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he says, ‘I feel like everything’s new again between us. Like we’ve been given permission to … start over.’

  ‘Permission?’ I laugh despairingly. ‘In what universe could someone like you and someone like me make any kind of sense? Who “permits” this?’ I look away from the tenderness in his gaze, the hurricane inside me begging to be set free.

  ‘You need to explain things to me,’ he insists. ‘I need to understand who it is that I’m —’

  ‘Dealing with?’ I cut in.

  Something flares in his eyes, and I’m instantly ashamed of my own cowardice because I know what he was about to say, the words he was going to use.

  ‘You could put it that way,’ he says, stung.

  I look down at my hands, wanting to touch him, to tell him I don’t deserve his love. Maybe I’ve never really known what love is; after all, I chose as my first love someone who soon after became … the Devil.

  I shudder. Ryan catches the movement and frowns.

  ‘Trade?’ he says so softly, I almost miss the word.

  For a long while I don’t answer, seeing landmines in every direction, seeing ancient history that could only cause Ryan pain, the last thing I would ever want for him. All the while, I struggle to keep my nausea at bay, to contain that sensation inside me of building, of escalation.

  ‘You promised.’ Ryan takes a shuddering breath. ‘It’s because of you I got broken in the first place.’

  ‘And I fixed you!’ I reply, turning on him like a wounded animal. ‘So quit complaining.’

  ‘I was broken the moment you left me the first time.’ His voice is very quiet. ‘Damn straight, it’s up to y
ou to fix me. And you haven’t even begun to mend the hurt you caused. You can’t hide from what’s between us forever! You deserve … love as much as anyone does.’

  It’s as if the word is ripped out of him. He’s unaware that I’ve already read his heart like a map, like the constellations.

  ‘Let me in,’ he begs, murmuring again, ‘you promised.’ ‘What?’ I say, struggling to hold myself together, to hold myself apart from him. ‘What did I “promise”? How was I even in any condition to promise you anything?’

  I see his face soften as his eyes glide over my features, over my glowing form, the curls of energy that drift off my skin, then blur and fade.

  ‘You promised that you’d never hurt me,’ he whispers. ‘Remember? When you were Lela. Then you went and died on me. It felt as if I was the one who’d been shot. I even looked down to see if I was bleeding …’

  I close my eyes, feeling again the ghostly impact of the bullet that ended Lela’s life. ‘I so badly wanted to go with you then,’ I murmur, ‘but it wasn’t permitted.’ I place the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to stem the ache I still feel for that lost girl. ‘I’m trying to protect you,’ I mutter over the white noise in my head, ‘for what it’s worth. You don’t know what you’re asking.’

  ‘That talk we were always supposed to have?’ Ryan pleads. ‘We’re having it now, Mercy. So start talking. You’re afraid, I’m afraid. But we’re here now, you’re free.’

  ‘I may not be caged inside another any longer,’ I say from behind my hands, ‘but you have no idea how wrong you are, what you’re up against. I will never be free.’

  Of you, of him. Not while I live.

  I see it again: the hills around Lake Como, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, all exploding in a kind of liquid flame, consumed by the wrath of demons and archangels colliding. In those memories, I see Ryan’s death foretold, and I almost cannot bear it.

  ‘Why are we even arguing?’ Ryan whispers, his breath stirring upon my skin. ‘Where have you gone?’

  ‘Beyond the stars,’ I whisper, hearing the static and the silence, the inexorable distance, in my head. How very far I fell, how far.

  He places a tentative hand upon my bare and glowing arm; against all wisdom, I allow it to remain. Ryan always was brave, and foolhardy around me. We’ve always fed that impulse in each other, and isn’t that what love is supposed to do? Lend you wings; grant you the strength and courage of Titans.

  ‘So real,’ he murmurs again in wonderment.

  Through his skin I can read the chaos in his thoughts: love piled upon fear, layered upon hope and desire, anger and frustration. The weight of them, their metaphysical noise, is almost intolerable.

  It feels wrong to have access to his innermost thoughts. Knowledge like that is so dangerous in the wrong hands. It’s little wonder that Luc’s ambitions have gained a certain purchase in this world: they are here for the picking, these mortals. Everything you need to know — their dreams, their vices — all flowing beneath the skin constantly, like a river. To be drawn from, or poisoned.

  Without consciously recalling how it’s done, little by little I turn Ryan down, tune him out. So that his inner energy, the random glimmers of thought and emotion I get from him now are almost bearable. It’s not perfect, but at least I can think again. I drop my hands from my face, turn to look at him.

  Finally, I tell him of home. And as I describe it, the way it was when it was fresh made and new, and every small thing seemed a miracle in and of itself, tears of fire spill down my cheeks, melting away even as they hit the chilly air.

  ‘My kind,’ I weep, ‘were not created to feel sorrow. Everything about me, about us, is impossible, Ryan, so frightening, I can’t see my way clear …’

  ‘You told me to go look up that word, elohim,’ he says. ‘The word for what you are. And I did, but I’m still missing something important. It can mean so many things. I’m no good at languages. Or history. All the stuff I read just confused me even more. I just want to hear what it means, from you.’

  He puts his arm around me and hauls me close, and it’s so electrifying, so longed for, that I can’t think again, can’t move. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and I’m so distracted by the achingly familiar scent of him, his human warmth, the life force surging inside him, that I close my eyes and give myself over to sensation, resting my head against the hard line of his shoulder. It feels so right. And so real. It’s just a moment or two out of time. Even the Archangel Michael would grant me that much.

  But then a bright, numinous light sweeps past the windows of our tower, followed swiftly by another, causing me to flinch, for I alone recognise its source. I can almost hear Gudrun breathing in the night, all her hatred, and that of her dead-eyed hunting partner, Hakael, bent towards me. They smell my fear. They seek to know where we hide inside this vast stone edifice. If Ryan and I had not reached sanctuary, I’m sure we’d already be dead.

  ‘Once,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice calm as the sweeping, searching light recurs, and recurs again, ‘there were upwards of a thousand elohim. Some created male, some female. Eight were made most powerful, most prescient, of all things that dwell in the universe: His regents. His princes. Tasked to discern His will.’

  Their names rise like smoke in the icy air. ‘Barachiel,’ I murmur, ‘Selaphiel, Jeremiel, Jegudiel, Uriel, Gabriel, Raphael, Michael …’

  A look of shock appears on Ryan’s face. ‘Mercy, those are the names of archangels. Beings that people actually … worship.’

  ‘And they were my friends,’ I whisper, ‘like my brothers. The name of God is woven into the very fabric of their beings, their names, as it is in mine, if only I could remember it, but something was done to me to make me forget, do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?’

  There’s baffled wonderment on Ryan’s face. For a moment, I get a torrent of feeling from him, denial the strongest thread.

  ‘And these eight, uh, archangels …?’ he says hesitantly.

  ‘Were the ones who kept me “safe”, who placed me inside a woman called Ezra, into another called Lucy, a girl called Susannah, then Carmen, Lela, Irina; and, before them all, an unbroken chain of human lives I can no longer recall …’

  Ryan frowns. ‘Kept you safe from what?’

  I pretend not to hear. ‘Our people are further divided into malakhim — the messengers, who are sometimes seen to intercede with the living here on earth; and seraphim, ophanim, dominions, powers, others. There are many … “castes”, for want of a better word, but the elohim are highest of all.’

  Ryan rolls his eyes. ‘Castes? You’ve just described Paradise High. And, I guess, I used to be one of the elohim, too. Before I fell. So snap! Some pair we make.’

  I return his grin with a startled smile of my own, but then my voice grows sombre again. ‘There are three classes of being under God: bestial, human, angelic. And one thing is known and understood by us all: never shall they intermix, or evil is the result. I know it as if it is written on my soul in letters of fire.’

  ‘Evil?’ Ryan leaps on the word. I feel his sudden tension in the arm lying across my shoulders.

  ‘When the Daughters of Man began to multiply upon the earth,’ I explain, unsure of how I gained such knowledge, where the words arise from, ‘some of our people lay with them, begetting a race called the nephilim. Some say they are murderous giants, some say devouring spirits.’

  ‘Fairy tales,’ Ryan scoffs.

  My eyes sharpen upon his. ‘The way the Devil and his demons are?’

  ‘What we are isn’t evil,’ he insists.

  ‘I don’t know what we are,’ I reply. ‘And I’m not saying I agree. I’m just giving you an idea of the … baggage that I come with.’

  Two supernatural factions wrestling for control of my soul across the centuries, reduced to this one word: baggage.

  Ryan’s answering look is wry.

  I recall Irina’s roomful of bespoke luggage and give
a short laugh. ‘I’m just telling you that this is how we’re … wired. So if you don’t think I come with the biggest damn warning sign you’ve ever seen, you aren’t really looking at me properly. Why aren’t you afraid of what I represent? Why aren’t you already running?’

  Ryan looks down. ‘You know the answer to that. Don’t make it any harder for me than it already is. And I’m not saying that the, uh, nephilim were a good thing. But the fact that they, uh, might exist,’ his face is sceptical, ‘shows that some of your people broke “the law” in the past, right? By mixing with us lower life forms. You might say you’re programmed one way, but I see you questioning things all the time. Everything you’ve done since I’ve known you has been a process of trying to break free; to override what was done to you by eight of the most powerful beings in existence.’

  I stiffen at his words, recognising both truth and heresy in them. It’s true that I no longer comprehend the ways of my own kind; that, in some way, for better or worse, I’ve … evolved. After all this time, I may be more human than not. Don’t I feel pain, fear, grief, sorrow, when I was created to feel none of these things?

  ‘Were they all there? The Eight?’ Ryan asks, catching me by surprise. ‘At the Galleria?’

  I shake my head. In my mind’s eye, I relive the instant Luc cut K’el down and pain explodes through me again. I rock forward, crossing my arms tightly to hold in the hurt.

  ‘K’el’s last act in life was to protect me,’ I gasp. ‘Even though I never loved him enough to deserve such sacrifice.’

  ‘K’el?’ Ryan seizes on the unfamiliar name, his grip tightening. I know what he remembers: a gleaming giant, tawny-haired, unyielding, honourable, bitter, with eyes like a young lion, who stood between me and Luc.

  ‘Raphael was supposed to be there, too,’ I whisper. ‘But he never made it. Nor did Jegudiel. And Selaphiel’s been … missing for a while now.’

  ‘Missing?’ Ryan queries sharply.

  I hear his frustration as he struggles to piece together the little I’ve seen fit to offer.