by Joy Nash
“Do not,” Raphael said, “take an insolent tone with me.” But he leaned forward to peer at the phone’s screen nonetheless. “What am I looking at?”
“The archives of The Czech Consolidated News Media.” He thumbed through a series of images, starting with the most recent. Each one showed the Nephil known as Vaclav Dusek. “See? This one was taken during Earth’s Second World War. Dusek looked then exactly as he does now.”
“So? Nephilim are long-lived, and don’t tend to show their age past thirty years.”
“That’s just it. A Nephil’s maximum lifespan is one hundred twenty years. Somehow, Dusek’s been around a lot longer.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I don’t think so. More loopholes at work, I’m afraid.” Michael retrieved a second set of photos. “These are from the Czech National Library’s historical archives. The record is sparse, but I managed to connect the dots.”
“Connect dots? Why would you want to do that?”
“Not literal dots. It’s an Earth expression. It means to infer new truth by combining previously known information in a unique way.”
“Huh.” Raphael waved a hand. “Proceed.”
Michael swiped through photos and news articles, one by one. “Dusek’s been around for a very long time. The earliest photographic record dates from the 1880s, but I found a few illustrations from earlier periods that also look like him.”
“It can’t be the same man. The earlier records must refer to Dusek’s ancestors.”
“I don’t think so,” Michael said. “I think Dusek’s been alive much longer than should be possible. Four centuries, at least. Probably longer.” He paused. “He’s not native to Prague. Nor is Dusek his original name. He’s had several. I’ve found evidence he may have been alive as far back as the fifteenth century. In the Southern Carpathians. That’s a mountain range between Romania and Serbia.”
“Five hundred years?” Raphael stood so abruptly, his golden robes stirred up a whirlwind. Michael’s hair whipped around his head. “That’s preposterous. A Nephil could amass a disturbing amount of power in five hundred years.”
“That’s precisely my point,” Michael said grimly. “I suggest—whoa!”
A sudden explosion of the cloud beneath his feet tossed Michael backward. His phone went flying. He wheeled his arms frantically while the source of the disturbance—his brother, Gabriel—soared skyward. Droplets of fog rained down. Crazy rainbows sprayed in every direction.
Raphael grabbed his throne’s armrest, his robes whipping in the sudden tempest. Michael only just managed to unfurl his wings in time to prevent an ignoble sprawl on his own celestial ass.
Gabriel’s silver wings flapped furiously as he tried to halt his upward trajectory. A gale-force wind swept downward. It slammed into Michael just as he was getting his feet back under his body. His butt landed in wet, sloppy cloud mist after all.
“Oh, for the love of—”
Gabriel threw himself into a dive.
“Watch out!” Raphael shouted.
Michael rolled. Gabriel landed hard, barely a foot in front of him. Cloud mist sprayed. A solid wave of the stuff slapped Michael square in the face.
“What the f—” At Raphael’s ferocious frown, he swallowed the foul word. But holy crap, he was soaked. He got to his feet and glared at Gabe. Who had, Michael noted with some surprise, seemed to have left his beloved walking stick behind somewhere. Not a good sign.
“What in Heaven’s holy name is wrong?” he demanded.
Gabriel was bent double, hands on his thighs, panting as if he’d run a marathon. He looked up and raised a forefinger.
Raphael huffed. “Really, brother. Your penchant for drama is not appreciated.”
“No drama,” Gabriel gasped. “I came...as quickly...as I...could.” Finally, he straightened. “Though I fear...it may already be...too late.”
“Too late for what?” Raphael demanded.
“Too late to keep Merlin’s staff in place.”
“What!?” Raphael exclaimed.
“Merlin’s cave—” Gabriel panted, still breathless. “Your celestial seal...breached. Arthur Camulus...inside.”
Michael’s eldest brother, the Holy Steward of Heaven and Earth, looked like someone had struck him with a poleaxe. “But-but-but that’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not,” Gabriel said. “Remember? All things are possible. There are loop—”
“Don’t say it.” Raphael’s golden eyes snapped. “I tell you, if I hear that word one more time, I will not be held accountable for the consequences.”
***
Arthur shot Cybele an incredulous look. “Are you barmy? Angels don’t possess humans. Only demons do that.”
“I know, I know. It sounds crazy.” Cybele gazed down at Jack, still cowering on the ground. “But you heard what Mrs. Spencer said about Jack’s good nature. She even called him an angel.”
“Not a literal angel.”
“Still. His soul is pure. And he said he heard voices.”
“A human doesn’t have to be possessed to hear voices.” Arthur’s own voice was tight. “Just mentally ill.”
“You felt nauseous at dinner,” Cybele pointed out. “And you’re feeling sick again now. I can tell.”
“That was because of the prayers,” Arthur said. “And now this damn hymn singing. It’s not Jack himself.”
“I don’t know, Arthur. What else could’ve pulled two Nephilim through a celestial seal except an angel?”
“What angel would want to?” Arthur countered. “Gabriel nearly shit himself trying to stop me from passing through that seal. No. It’s got to be something else.”
“Not a demon,” Cybele said. “I mean, just look at him.” Jack, lying flat on his back on the ground, blinked up at them with wide, sad eyes. “What self-respecting demon would manifest like that?”
“Good point,” Arthur murmured. Still, an angel? It seemed so improbable.
“Please. Please come.” Jack held up a trembling hand.
Cybele grasped it and pulled him to his feet. “Jack,” she said. “Where do you want us to go? Did someone send you to get us?”
He looked at her beseechingly. “Please. Come.”
Cybele sighed. “We should just go with him and see what happens.”
There really wasn’t much choice, Arthur supposed. “All right. I can’t say I like this, but...lead the way, Jack. We’ll follow.”
Jack nodded and darted down the narrow passage. “Here!” he called from the gloom.
The lad was bouncing on his toes, pointing to a narrow crack in the cave wall. The wailing grew louder, clearly emanating from the crevice. Arthur was inclined to dismiss the path as impassible, but Jack seemed determined to get through. He turned his thin body sideways and stuffed himself in. With a sound like the popping cork, he disappeared.
“Bloody hell,” Arthur said in exasperation. “How are we supposed to follow him through there?”
Cybele went down on her haunches and peered through. Arthur let his demon light dip, to better illuminate the crevice. “Can you see him?” he asked.
“No. There’s a turn, about ten feet in. I think...” She swallowed, and wiped her hands on her jeans as she stood. “I think...I think it’s wide enough to get through. For me, anyway.”
Her anxiety was obvious. “Fuck that shit,” Arthur told her. He tugged her away from the crack. “Stand back,” he said, calling hellfire into his hands.
Cybele regarded him warily. “What’re you going to do?”
“Blast our way in.”
“Arthur, I don’t think—”
He launched a concentrated stream of fire into the crevice. Unfortunately, he’d misjudged the force needed. The explosion was enormous. Cybele cried out. He grabbed her and slammed her into the ground, covering her with his body. Rock and dust rained down all around.
“Can’t...breathe.” Cybele shoved at him. He rolled to one side. She gasped and then dissolved in
to a fit of coughing.
“Shit,” he said. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He helped her to her feet and pounded her back.
She swatted his hand away. “Damn it, Arthur, the entire cave could’ve come down on our heads.”
“But it didn’t.” He nodded toward the crevice, which was at least a foot wider than it’d been. “And now we can go through.”
He plunged in sideways, Cybele close behind. Once around the bend, the passage opened up considerably. Another turn to the right and one to the left. They emerged into cool, clean air.
Arthur let his demonlight sputter and die. He no longer needed it. They stood on an upper ledge in a light-filled underground chamber. A dark pool filled most of the space. A flat rock rose from the center of the still water, in which a staff of twisted wood, topped by a crystal orb, stood embedded. A stream of sparks shot upward from the orb. The light arced in every direction, spilling to the ground in a many-streamed fountain of brilliance. The eerie moan rose and fell with the light.
Arthur’s breath caught. He stood mesmerized, his body frozen, his vision dazzled.
Cybele laid a hand on his arm. “We’ve found it. We’ve found Merlin’s staff.”
Her voice was wavy and indistinct, as if it had journeyed to Arthur’s ears from a place far, far away. Merlin’s staff, with its massive Druid touchstone, filled his senses. Arthur’s most powerful ancestor had fashioned that rod and held it in his hand. He’d used the crystal sphere as a focus to his fathomless magic. And now...
“It’s mine,” Arthur breathed.
The moaning grew louder, rising and falling with the rushing pulse in his ears. His vision went white, obliterating everything. Everything but the staff itself. Dazzled by its beauty, by its endless possibility, Arthur plunged toward the water’s edge. Dimly, he heard a voice call his name. He paid no attention. He was about to dive into the pool when a hand on his belt yanked him back. He spun about, wings lifted, hellfire crackling, left hand raised.
Cybele grabbed his arm with both hands and shoved it up over her head. Hellfire shot from his palm, and hit the cave’s ceiling. A shower of sparks and rock shards rained down.
“Arthur! What’s the matter with you? Get a grip.”
A large stone hit Arthur’s skull. “Wha—?” He gave his head a shake, blinking. Cybele. She stood glaring up at him. His arm was lifted. For some reason, she was holding it above his head.
He blinked down at her. “Cybele? What...what’s going on?”
She slowly let her hands fall. “Are you okay?”
“I—” Why was his arm up? He lowered it. His gaze was drawn by the staff, glittering on the other side of the water.
“I need to get over there,” he said.
“You need a plan first,” Cybele countered. “If you’re not careful, that staff could tear you apart. How are you going to approach it? How are you going to judge its power before you touch it?”
“I...I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “I guess I’ll just—”
“Wait,” Cybele said suddenly. “What happened to Jack?”
Arthur looked up sharply. He’d all but forgotten the lad. “He’s got to be somewhere about.”
“I don’t see him.” Cybele scanned the cave. “Where the hell could he have gone?”
A maze of rock formations, punctuated by nooks and twisting paths, rose and fell around the pool. “Could be anywhere,” Arthur said.
“But why would he hide?”
“Good question.”
They moved around the pool, peering into the shadows at the perimeter of the cave. They found a half-dozen or more tunnels like the one they’d come through, but no Jack.
“Damn,” Arthur said. “He could be hiding anywhere.” He paused. “Or anyone else could be.”
“Like whoever told Jack to bring us here.”
“Exactly.”
They rounded a column encased in ripples of milky crystal. A dark form lay crumpled behind it.
“Jack.” Cybele dropped to her knees and pressed two fingers under his jaw.
Arthur stood over her, every sense alert. No movement, no sound, other than the constant drip of water. “Alive?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s just unconscious.”
He expelled a breath. “What happened? Did he fall? Hit his head?”
Cybele probed his skull. “No. At least, I don’t feel a lump or anything.” She leaned close, and gave him a little shake. “Jack? Can you hear me?”
A deep voice, cold and amused, answered. “He has no need to hear you. The boy has served his purpose.”
Arthur spun about, hellfire crackling on his fingertips. The speaker remained hidden. “Show yourself,” he shouted.
“As you wish.”
A figure, clad in black, stepped from the shadows.
SIXTEEN
“Lucky, Lucky, Lucky! You’re back!”
Yes, Maweth’s foolish friend was back, and he was a mess. He’d burst through the mirror unannounced, tumbled head over heels, and landed in a heap.
“It was so terrrrrrible,” he sobbed. “So b-b-bad of meeee.”
The little guy’s halo was askew and, Maweth thought, a duller shade of gold than it had been. He felt awful. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “Not for me. I’m not worth it.”
Lucky’s head popped up. “But you are. You’re my friend.”
“I’m Death itself. I’m no one’s friend.”
Lucky rubbed his eyes and blew his nose on the edge of his swaddling clothes. “I’d do it again. For you. But oh, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“That makes no sense,” Maweth pointed out.
“It was...so strange...being inside a human,” Lucky said, blue eyes blinking rapidly. “Even one as nice as Jack. I didn’t want to hurt him, but every time he got near one of those Nephilim...” Lucky shuddered. “He hated it as much as I did.”
“So you’re out now,” Maweth said. “It’s over. Try to forget about it.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” Lucky said doubtfully. “Jack’s still in trouble.”
“He’ll be all right,” Maweth said.
“You think so?”
“I do,” Maweth lied. He really, really didn’t believe that. Not one little bit. The kid was toast.
“But...what about Raphael?” Lucky said. “I don’t even wanna think about how furious he’s gonna be when he finds out I pulled three Nephilim—and poor Jack—through his celestial seal.”
Maweth shrugged. “Who says he’s got to find out? I’m certainly not going to tell him. And I doubt old Dusek’s gonna get chummy with him, either.”
“That just leaves me,” Lucky said miserably. “And I can’t keep a secret for anything.”
***
A figure stepped from the shadows.
Nephil magic pulsed in waves. The power was so strong, Arthur wondered how he could have been unaware of the adept’s presence until that very moment. The newcomer was wiry and tall, clad entirely in black save for the crimson lining of his cloak. The garment billowed gently as he moved.
Arthur experienced a sick jolt of recognition.
“You.” The face before him—pale and gauntly beautiful—lived in his nightmares. “You killed my parents.”
The Nephil advanced slowly, as if stalking prey. Perhaps he was. A shower of light glinted on an ornament hanging from a chain around his neck. A quicksilver mirror. Arthur had seen a drawing of such a disc in an old history of the Nephilim he’d found in his father’s library. The liquid mercury swirled and bubbled, yet somehow retained a solid shape. Strong magic. Alchemy.
He raised his left hand. The middle finger bore a heavy gold ring, bearing a disturbingly lifelike replica of the Nephil’s own face. Its eyes held a glint of amusement. The expression was identical to the one on its wearer’s countenance.
“Why, little Arthur. All grown up. Do you know, you resemble Alwen most strongly.”
A hot wave of rage broke over Arthur. “Do not utte
r her name.”
The Nephil gave a thin smile. “May I mention your father’s, then? I have never, in all my years, met a fool quite like Tristan. Filled with noble ideas about freedom and self-determination. Dedicated to the shelter and protection of his human brethren. Unwilling to bind any Nephil as his thrall.” White teeth flashed. “Utterly unable to control his lover. I could never understand how your father rose to alpha status, Arthur. It reveals, I suppose, the essential weakness of the Druid line.”
“He was stronger than you.”
The Nephil’s smile broadened. “Facts say otherwise. Do you know, I very much enjoyed killing your father. Even more, I think, than I enjoyed defiling your mother.”
“You fucking bastard.”
“Do you know the most pleasurable aspect of that night? The moment Tristan’s hellfire struck Alwen. The look on your father’s face as she fell is one of my fondest memories.”
Grief and rage congealed in Arthur’s gut. White light exploded at the edges of his vision. He felt Cybele’s hand pressing flat on his back.
“Arthur,” she murmured. “Stay calm.”
“My father was aiming for you,” Arthur told the Nephil.
Dark brows shot up. The patronizing smile vanished. “You were there?”
“At the window.”
“I see.” The Nephil’s lips thinned. “Mab has much to answer for.”
“Enough,” Arthur said. “Who are you? Why did you send Jack to bring us here?”
“Did I neglect to introduce myself? How remiss of me.” He spread his arms and bowed. “I am Professor Vaclav Dusek. Alchemist.”
“A descendant of Azazel.”
“I have that honor, yes.”
“That shame, you mean.” Azazel had been the worst of the Watcher angels. Arthur’s Watcher ancestor Samyaza had wanted only to be left in peace with his human wives. Azazel, by contrast, had considered humanity an endless source of personal amusement. He’d taught the fledgling race murder, obscenity, and war. Then he’d settled back to watch the show.
Arthur called hellfire into his palms and launched it, full force, at Dusek. The twin blasts hit the Alchemist squarely in the chest. He didn’t so much as stumble, or even flinch. In fact, Arthur thought with chill foreboding, his attack hadn’t even made contact with the bastard’s body. The hellfire had come within an inch of his flesh and simply vanished.