He knelt at the altar steps, head bowed. He knew that to pray one needed only a prayerful heart, not the trappings of religion, but right now.... He shook his head. Right now, he felt he needed the extra comfort, the scent of candle wax, the play of sunlight through stained glass.
His mind spun. What to pray? Save her? He squeezed shut his eyes, feeling the prickle of tears at their backs. Save her? He had the means in his pocket. A temptation from the devil. What if she was meant to die? Meant, in the grand scheme of the universe, to be a light to shine for her little neighborhood, a light made brighter by its brevity?
Perhaps her medical science would yet save her? She’d told him she was receiving the best care available. The finest doctors... the thoughts wound to a halt. He’d seen Azrael outside her window. He knew, more than most, what that meant.
What, too, of his own destiny? Rue looked up at the golden altar cloth. The silver chalice placed just so. Nathanial needed him. Needed him to share his own compassion; his own loves with the other judges. He knew why he’d been sent, now. Understood what Nathanial had wanted him to understand and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would be a much truer judge for loving Serafina.
But what of the demonkin? The two doorways he’d found, right in front of his face. Those he couldn’t ignore. But what to do about them? Stay a human watchman, bring the demonkin to the attention of Michael and Gabriel? He shook his head. Heaven’s princes wouldn’t interfere. They’re agreed eons ago to leave the humans to their free will. The light always honored the convenent. The demonkin, by their very nature, did not. But if he had his wings, what could he do? He was bound to Hell’s Gate and couldn’t hunt the demonkin on his own. The idea of leaving those creatures to trail after Serafina and the mortal friends he’d made had the blood running cold in his veins.
Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.
“So much conflict,” the quiet voice barely broke the silence.
He turned, knowing before he did, Nathanial would be sitting beside him. “I wondered if you would come to me.” He kept his own voice low.
“How frustrating it must be for most mortals to never truly know if their prayers were being answered.” Nathanial sighed deeply. “I could have had your memories wiped clean. I could have insisted that Michael and Gabriel send you here with no recollection of who you were and from whence you came.” The Archangel’s voice was low, gravelly, the sound of stone scraping against stone.
“I think I know why you did not.” Rue replied still not turning.
“Then you know the choices you must make.” He always thought the weariness, the drag of the evil on the souls of the judged, made Nathanial sound so weary. Now, he could hear sadness.
“Naya’il told me.” There was no need to explain. He would know.
“And?”
He turned finally to face the Archangel. Nathanial sat, his hands resting on his knees, his one good eye, black as Rue’s own, on the crucifix over the altar. The other eye was gone, had been gone as long as Rue had known him, in a face marred by thick white scar tissue that sealed the eye shut and ripped down into the cheek below, to stop right at the corner of the angel’s mouth. He had never asked. Never wondered. Nathanial’s long fingers traced the scar, a gesture he’d made a million times. “How?” Rue asked at last.
The angel nodded, long blond hair falling forward to shield the scarred eye. “A reminder and a penance.”
He felt his back tighten. Nathanial nodded.
“I lived, Rue. I lived, I loved and I lost her.” He touched the mark. “I tried to save her. I had already decided to tell Michael and Gabriel to go to Hell.” He tossed back his hair and smiled. “I know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours.”
The vial in his pocket felt heavy.
“I was tired of standing in judgment, of seeing only the worst of what humanity had to offer.” He twisted the gold ring on his hand. “I knew there had to be more to mortality so I left to walk among the humans. Shed my wings and made my way as one of them.” Gold winked as the ring once more twisted. Rue had seen that band for centuries as well and never wondered at its meaning, thinking it no more than an ornament. “Iya was a pagan priestess dancing a ritual to the moon, when I first met her.” He gave Rue a sad smile. “You know what that hit to the gut feels like. I couldn’t breathe.” Shaking his head, he continued. “She became my wife.”
Silence stretched between therm. Rue snapped it up, closed it. “How?”
“Ignorance. Fear.” Nathanial gestured to the crucifix. “What has killed humans since time immemorial? They came for her, a faction of the priesthood not aligned with her beliefs.” He shook his head. “After all these years I still don’t know why they hated her so. She was a light and maybe that was why. She was a light they didn’t control. They took her. I fought them, but they overwhelmed me. Left me for dead.” His hand smoothed over the scar once more. “They killed her.”
“Did you return to judge them?” He felt sympathetic anger bubble in his own gut.
Nathanial shook his head. “No. I returned because Michael told me I was needed.” He tapped his heart. “I understood what drove men. I understood the true weight of humanity. Judges who understand are always needed.” That single black eye pinned him. “Will always be needed.”
Nathanial’s presence felt comforting. So much more so than the others who had visited him. He had felt so uneasy in their presence. So unworthy. “Did you –” he choked, “ –did you go back right away?”
He wondered if the angel would answer. After a few long moments of quiet, his voice finally broke the silence. “No. Not right away. I had some very human vengeance to wreak.” Fury, even centuries old, shivered up Rue’s spine. “I hunted those false priests down one by one and sent them to the Maker.” One side of the angel’s mouth winged up in a humorless smile. “So, I suppose I did judge them in a way.”
“Then how...?”
His hand rested warm on his shoulder. “Penance and reminder.” With a nod, the Archangel stood. “I understand, Rue.” He fisted the hand with the wedding ring. “Remember, though, I need you. Humanity needs you.” He tugged his long dark wool coat closed, snugged a hat down over his head. “Add that to your thoughts.” His eye seemed to zero in on Rue’s pocket, then up to his face. “Remember too, no matter what you decide, I won’t blame you.” With those final words, he turned and walked back down the nave. A blast of cold air from the closing door signaled his departure. No flashy exit for Nathanial. He’d never been one for theatrics.
One more look at the crucifix and Rue left. He had all the questions, all the answers. He just needed to start sorting them out.
CHAPTER NINE
He began to hunt. He needed more time and while he thought, while he lived, he decided to try and track the demonkin. Were they all coming from the same place? Were they all the same kind?
He left the SRO, rented a tiny efficiency apartment in a questionable neighborhood and spent many of the nights without Serafina walking the streets, peering into the shadows. He’d taken a blade, a long wicked number that flipped around and around before folding into its own handle, from the young man who had tried to mug him on the first night. He’d left the tough out cold in the doorway of a club on Clark Street. He would wake on his own and crawl away under his own power, or someone would find him and call the police. Either way, he was finished with his nefarious deeds for the night.
Rue drew in a deep breath. The cold air burned his nose and lungs, bringing him the scents of the city. Garbage, gasoline, oil, and the sharp, almost pine, scent of fear. He hadn’t lost all of his resources with his wings, he’d come to discover. The memories he retained came with some abilities.
He found that he moved faster than most mortals. He also had sharper senses. He grinned in the darkness. That was a true benefit when wrapped around Serafina.
Shadows slithered and chattered at the mouth of an alley, pulling him from his musing. A cat screamed and bol
ted, a tawny streak across his feet. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his blade as he made his way toward that chittering. They looked like men. Boys really, crouched in the shadows of a shattered streetlamp, a lump stretched out beneath their hands. The cat’s companion lay still, dark fur glistening with blood in the moonlight.
Preternatural hearing caught his very human feet scuff. The three of them whipped around, eyes glowing unholy green. The tallest hissed, its fangs dripping blood. The other two stalked forward. The leader returned to its meal, trusting its minions to take care of the interruption.
Rue flipped the blade, small now in the face of three demonkin. He might be faster than the average man, but they were faster still. One of them leaped up the wall, skittering like a huge spider across the bricks. The other crawled forward, knees bending in ways that would break a human, reminding him that these forms were only illusions and not possessed humans, making his job easier and infinitely harder at the same time.
They hissed at each other. He recognized the liquid syllables of their infernal language, but his human ears couldn’t understand the words. Their intent was clear. They were planning to feast on the foolish human who had stumbled across their hunting. The cats had been a poor meal for creatures who had been hunting human flesh, and here dinner had delivered itself.
Rue’s other hand went to another pocket, palming a vial of holy water. He had only two vials, so he had to make his shots count and hope one of them fled. With a spin, he hurled one vial at the creature clinging to the wall above him. The vial detonated like an explosive against its head. It shrieked, the sound of brakes on the freeway, and clawed its now steaming eyes. It fell with a sickening crunch to the pavement, dissolving into a sticky puddle. Rue stumbled back from the advancing demon goo and right into the other creature’s path. It launched itself at him.
Rue took the tackle, rolled with it, tossing the demonkin over him. It twisted midair to land with feline grace on its feet. He would have sworn if he’d been that kind of man. As it was, he brought the knife up in defense just as the bloody-fanged leader crashed into him from behind. The blade clattered down the alleyway. Clammy demon hands clawed at his back, digging at the leather coat, unable to tear through. Rue sent up thanks for that.
The creature crawled off, took a punishing kick that would have broken the ribs of a mortal, and grabbed the fallen angel to flip him over. The acid green eyes narrowed and it snuffled all over him, drawing in his scent. It sneezed. “Angel stink,” it grated in a mortal tongue and spat, blasting a tiny hole in the alleyway. “What are you?” It asked, holding Rue’s face in one scabrous hand. The sickly green eyes peered close. Its companion whined at the alley mouth.
The leader looked up with a snarl, then exploded into a rain of sticky demon muck. Rue rolled, gagging, spitting the stuff out of his mouth, got to his feet. A shadow detached itself from the walls, a cold wind hissing past him. Rue looked up into the amber eyes.
“You’re a fool.” Azrael swung his great scythe through the air once more before putting it up. The chill scent of graveyard dirt filled Rue’s nose for a moment before the stench of the demon goo all over him rose to cover it. The angel looked at the trio of oily black pools for a moment before remarking, “Didn’t know they exploded. I always thought demonkin just sort of melted away.”
Rue spat again, retrieved his blade and gestured to the first demon pool. “That one did.”
“Hmmm....” Azrael bent, touched one faintly glowing hand to the stained pavement. The pools flowed together, gleamed with silver light for a moment, then faded. Even the hole made by the demonkin’s spit looked like a newly-patched piece of asphalt.
“Handy,” Rue smiled. “The city of Chicago could use you.”
Azrael snorted. “What do you think you were doing?” He gestured to the city sprawl behind him. “You’re lucky I was attending a crossing right over there when I smelled the demonkin and came to investigate.” He shook his head. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“I’m trying to make some sort of difference.” He slipped the switchblade back into his coat pocket. “I’m one of the few people who can see them. That’s got to mean something. It’s got to mean that I should take care of them.”
Azrael reached out to poke him in the shoulder. Rue stumbled back two paces. “You’re mortal. Did that little fact slip your brain? You can see them because the princes didn’t take your memory.” He rolled his golden eyes up to the heavens as if requesting patience. “I don’t know why. Usually, they drop the fallen with no memory, but it’s not my place to question them.” He turned back to the street, saying over his shoulder, “If you really want to make a difference, think about where you can do the most good. Here or at the Gate?” With one more nod, Azrael stepped onto the deserted street and disappeared as if he’d never been.
Rue looked around the grungy little alleyway. Nothing but a dead cat and the lingering sweet stench of the demonkin. He hunched his shoulders against a sudden blast of wind, and started on his way home. Maybe Azrael was right. He was a fool. Maybe he did have a death wish. Watching Fina fade these last few weeks, it was all he could do to keep from slipping the vial of miracles into her tea. Part of him really wished to do it, really wanted to slip her the potion and sit back as the doctors claimed a miracle.
Maybe that’s why he’d found himself not at her side every night, but out prowling the streets, looking for demonkin. It was his good luck that he’d found nothing but wholly human predators so far, and that Azrael had been nearby when he’d run into his first true threat.
Maybe he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, as he’d thought. A glance at the sky showed the brightening gray streaks of dawn creeping closer. Time to get home. Time to think. * * * *
“Thank you, Azrael,” Michael nodded to the Angel of Death. “I knew he would need help tonight.”
Azrael bowed. “He’s my friend too, Michael.” He turned to press on to the next appointment on his list. “There’s more going on here, isn’t there, than simply Rue finding his compassion.” It wasn’t a question.
Michael stood silent as a statue, his silver eyes unfathomable. “We cannot interfere. We cannot violate the covenant.”
Silence stretched between them. Azrael weighed the Archangel’s words, heard what he said and what he very carefully hadn’t said. With another bow and a slight smile he turned back to his own business. Though he would keep a closer eye on Rue.
* * * *
“Do we need to speak to him?” Gabriel eyed the portal through which the Angel of Death had disappeared.
Michael shook his head. “Azrael knows the covenant as well as you and I. He won’t jeopardize what we already have in play.”
“And what do you have in play?” Sim’s acid question popped into existence before he did. “Ruvan nearly got himself killed tonight. Azrael’s intervention was providential.” He glared at Michael, as if knowing exactly where that interference had truly originated. “You nearly crossed a line.”
Michael nodded, acknowledging the scold. “Ruvan is a special case, is he not? Of the humans, yet angel-touched as well?”
“He needs more,” Gabriel put in.
Sim sputtered as Michael nodded. “Indeed. Trying to take on three demonkin with nothing, but a butterknife.”
“I believe it was a switchblade, but an unhallowed one.”
Silver and gold eyes met agreement in their depths. “Very well,” Gabriel bowed to his fellow princes. “I will take care of it before dawn breaks.” A shining shower of gold and he was gone.
“Well, Sim,” Michael nodded to the waking world beyond their veil, “have you lost your doubts?”
Humans woke, stirred themselves to prayers even though they themselves did not know they prayed: prayers for safety, something for an empty belly, a job, a day with no pain. The heart prayers swirled around the two Archangels.
Sim gestured, letting the prayers gather in his han
ds like snow. “If they can still have hope, then I would be remiss to doubt.” He gathered the prayers to him, lifted them to his mouth and blew. They flew like dandelion fluff. “Take comfort,” he whispered, “take hope, see your fellowmen as brothers.”
Michael breathed deep. The scent of the demonkin and their oppression began to lift. Hope, like spring dandelion weeds, began to crawl up through the cracks in the city. He clapped his brother angel on the shoulder. “To our work, then.”
Sim nodded. They disappeared in a flash of light like the sunlight sparking off a lake.
* * * *
Rue let himself into his tiny studio apartment. Exhaustion dragged at him. He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his shirt and wanted nothing more than an hour or two of sleep before he had to go to work, but he knew that he needed to shower. He could feel the sticky demonkin goo on his skin, permeating his pores and pulling his thoughts in directions he didn’t want them to go. Resentment bubbled and he took a deep breath, pushing it away. He’d scrub away the taint, take a nap and then go work. Good physical labor would drive the last of the demonkin poison from his system.
Then he’d see Serafina. She was a balm that could soothe any poison.
With a smile for the thought, he tugged off his shirt, dropping it on the floor next to the bed. The gleam of light caught his eye first. He froze, his very breath backing up in his lungs at the sight of the gleaming silver and gold sword that lay on the bed, its crosspiece on the pillow.
It was the twin of the celestial blade he had been able to conjure when he’d had his wings. He could feel the warmth of the blessed blade from where he stood and it went a long way toward driving away the lingering effects of the demonkin taint.
His hand reached out as if of its own volition to touch the hilt. It molded to his hand as though it had been made for him. A blast of warmth and light and wind, and he stood clean as if he’d just stepped from the shower and as awake as if he’d just woken from a good night’s rest. The blessed blade shivered and twisted, shrinking itself down to the size of the switchblade he’d been using. Only then did he see the note. Written on a thick piece of white vellum in a strong hand were the words, “Use wisely.”
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