Pushing on the weighty blue doors, they were unlocked and once opened all the way, the man prudently stepped inside the independent school. It was a small but highly popular institution, situated on the outskirts of its namesake town in Southern Connecticut. Renowned for its exceptional quality of teaching, the moral climate was ‘perfectly diverse and appropriate for the cultivation of young minds’, to quote one of Headmistress Jeffries’ many erudite speeches.
Speaking of her, the doors had not yet closed before her bun-topped frame halted any further progress into the lobby.
The man had stopped just short of crashing into her, running a hand through his short blonde hair before calmly placing it in his pocket. Standing taller, he was also notably wider, his muscular stature easily dwarfing hers a few times over.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Jeffries said to him politely enough, without any signs of intimation showing in her creased face. Somehow, that was enough to negate his size.
The man himself remained silent, unable to see what she had a hold of in her hands, tucked suspiciously behind her back. It might have been nothing at all, but he was not about to chance a fight. He just continued to stare with his cobalt eyes and in the grayish light, they seemed to glow as if lit by distant flames.
Mrs. Jeffries smirked at his lack of response, relaxing her arms in turn. Indeed she had been hiding behind something in her hands: a dagger made of crystal, gleaming with ancient runes carved along its entire length.
“Stoic as ever; you haven’t changed one bit,” she told him, taking a step closer while wielding the blade. “Trouble still follows you around, lapping at your feet. If I didn't know better, I’d say you liked keeping us all on our toes, my dearest Teloc Gassagan.”
When she spoke those words, the change in her voice was astounding. It deepened like the skies during an ominous storm, the place shaking with unseen power. Although the sun was still climbing the early sky, the lobby grew dark, much more than a passing cloud would produce.
“You dare to speak my true name in this place?” the man bellowed, eyes gleaming as his right hand thrust forward, fingers arranged in a sign of benediction. “While you are in that form no less? Show your vessel some respect, for brave and foolish are those of us who bandy words carelessly. There is a time and place for Enochian, but that is not here and certainly not now.”
“Do not presume to lecture me on respect, Azrael,” she snapped. “You out of all of us have shown the worst of it, except for Lucif –”
He nudged forward, his face grimacing.
She then regarded his gesture and it became clear how serious he was. Knowing full well what he meant to do by that sign, a chill raced down her spine as she holstered the dagger in its gilded sheath. “Azrael… you would smite one of the Chorus? As if we were nothing but low life Hell scum?”
“Yes, I would,” Azrael replied without delay, “though saying you are one of the Chorus is surely a joke, due to your own shaded past. Look, times are grave, Samael, and the decisions we are being forced to make even more so. Worst of all, we do not know who or what may be listening.”
The look on her face had shades of concern, but also doubt. “Yes, both our histories are tainted in the eyes of the Chorus; at least on that we can agree. As you've said, times have definitely changed, but you have me curious. Who else, other than demons, would be interested in knowing of what we speak?”
“Many,” Azrael answered. “Numerous players have entered into this little game. I fear something is moving secretly in the shadows so it can remain hidden and that by the end, demons may be the least of our worries.”
“How so?”
He groaned, but not in annoyance, instead hesitating as if he didn't want to answer. “It seems that even the Reapers have shown interest here.”
“Reapers? As in more than just the Grim?” She was in disbelief, expression darker than Death’s own robes. “That's…”
“Worrying,” he finished on her behalf, tilting his head as his brow furrowed. “I will speak more on this, but yes, more than one. I think I encountered another not two days ago, while in Paris.”
“Who was it?” Samael asked.
“I don't know,” Azrael stated. “She was an enigma at the auction house, dressed in black with the reddest lips I have ever seen. Her smile still haunts the recesses of my mind. There is great power there.”
Samael hung her head low as it swam in thought. Tilting it back up, a long exhale came before she continued. “Come, we are clearly too far behind with much left to discuss. The Chorus already don't like us, so this meeting should be fun.”
He relaxed his hand, drawing it flat before motioning her to lead the way. “I agree; after you.”
Promptly, she spun around and moved toward the classrooms, passing pieces of lavish furniture that were quite ostentatious by school standards. Azrael fell in close and they both set off together down the long corridor.
Normally bustling with the sights, sounds, and even smells of children, the hall was empty. It was a Saturday morning, the stale air filled only by the noise of shoes as they trod along the glossy floor. Along both sides, rows of bright yellow lockers were set in the walls while an assortment of Christmas drawings adorned the otherwise boring gaps in between.
Before long, they had reached their destination; a small classroom sat the end of the hall, just ahead of a set of closed fire doors. On the entrance was a rectangular plate, black and engraved with white lettering, reading ‘Sixth grade – Mrs. Glenn.’.
“We are here,” Samael said, opening the door to the classroom. “You first.”
One of the drawings that had been struggling to hang on fluttered softly to the ground. Azrael stepped up to the threshold, holding out his hand and immediately, the sketch was summoned into it. He studied the crude crayon depiction of a family, who were gathered around a Christmas tree overflowing with presents. At the very top of the page was a shape; angelic with arms and wings outstretched from edge to edge. Azrael regarded it for a few moments – its innocence and simplicity reminding him of far less complicated times. Smiling, he folded up the paper twice and tucked it inside his suit pocket. Glancing back to Samael once more, still doubtful as to her intentions, he entered.
Expecting to feel a rush of constricting air as he stepped inside, there was nothing out of the ordinary to greet him. Hence, no trap wards had been set and, thankfully, no blistering banishments either. Despite that, what he found in the classroom was no less surprising.
Seated in twenty desks, set in five rows of four, were Mrs. Glenn’s students. She was absent, but all were dressed in their prim and proper uniforms as if school were in session. The girls and boys alike wore the same thing: pressed white shirts beneath bottle green blazers and starchy Royal Stewart ties, all topping off their plain black trousers.
There was no laughing or smiling, nor the scratching of pens to paper. The students simply sat in eerie silence, unmoving with their arms folded across the desktops and legs crossed below the knees. All their heads were dipped in repose.
Samael stepped up and spoke softly, as if to not disturb the slumbering children. “It is time for him to come,” she whispered to Azrael, “be ready to shield your vessel.”
Azrael knew of what she spoke, but not of whom, inching away from her until there was ample space between them. Then, in a shower of light and down, six blazing wings unfurled from his back. The uppermost folded across his face to shield his eyes while the lowermost pair hid his feet from view.
Samael glanced over in reverence before taking a similar stance, guarding her own eyes with two ethereal wings as the room overflowed with light and the heat of a hundred suns. She then spoke with authority into the blinding white, “Glória in excélsis Deo; the path ahead is lit. Light of God, we are ready to receive you. Benedíctus Deus in sǽcula.”
There came a response from the brightness, voices of all the students speaking as one. “We are ready to receive you,” they said, thrice repeated.
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No sooner than their invitation had been spoken did a great boom come from on high, the room quaking as the thunderous blast of a distant horn blew in like a terrible wind. The light drew down and once it had finally gone, the children's heads all rose in unison, eyes now shining like diamonds. “The Light of God has come,” the children chanted.
“Greetings, your Grace,” Samael said to the gathering.
The chorus of minors answered, “I see before me two angels of death. Faithless. Apocryphal. Accursed. You reveal yourselves to us, now of all times? Not since the Fall of Man have we heard your voices amidst the Chorus of the Nine.”
“A couple of ages at least,” she replied, wings disappearing in a flutter of light. “Thankfully, my return seems well timed, as the world is on the brink of chaos.” She looked to her right and Azrael suddenly felt himself pierced by looks from them all.
“On the brink, according to this one?” the children asked, unimpressed. “Sadly Samael, you have likely been duped by another tale woven from the lips of a harbinger of doom. Truth be known, the Seven grow tired of dealing with these whispers in the dark from the Earth; for some reason this place cannot be compliant like the rest…”
Azrael laughed as he adjusted his tie, smirking all the while. “That would be due to free will, Uriel, though I would not expect any from the Third Circle to understand such things, especially the seven of you archangels.”
Uriel scoffed. “Is the very Light of God being lectured to by an outcast? Friend of Lucifer, your words are noxious.”
“You say that as if it is a bad thing,” Azrael responded. “Lest it has been so long you’ve forgotten that Lucifer was most admired and that I am a seraph of the First Circle.”
“You were...” Uriel countered. “So I am still correct and an outcast of Heaven you remain. Lest I remind you of your corrupted wisdom for the sake of splendor.”
“Enough with this bickering!” Samael yelled. “We have pressing issues far beyond who has the larger wingspan here.”
“Very well,” Uriel said complacently, himself not wanting to draw this meeting out for long. “I'll entertain this, for a time. Speak.”
Samael gestured to Azrael, who then stepped forward to address the gathering. He recounted all that he knew about the activities happening in the world, from the Noctis and their rise to power to the Journeymen seeking out the lost artifacts and actually obtaining them. There was also talk about the Deceiver Dajjal’s return and the deaths of most of the Hell Knights.
“So, the Hell Knights are no more?” Samael asked, astonished by such news. “How is this even possible?”
“All of them are now in the great abyss, save one,” Azrael answered, turning toward Samael. “As you know, demons have never been able to hold themselves together in large groups for long periods of time, especially organized ones. Their very nature prohibits these things from lasting, so I know we all find it surprising the Noctis has been able to last for millennia.”
Samael nodded. “Their efforts have certainly been slow.”
“Thankfully so,” Azrael acknowledged. “Regarding the Knights, three of them had escaped long ago, Baal being the first. Somehow he freed himself and Great Duke Eligos, both then springing Paimon and Astaroth out of their confines. Recently, formidable magic was used to set the remaining four free, a power we have not perceived since before history began.”
“Where?” Samael asked. “I had felt a great disturbance, like a stone cast in a calm pond, but did not know where it came from.”
“There was a massacre at the Bolivian salt flats.”
“The Chorus felt this disturbance as well,” Uriel indicated.
“And you did nothing?” Azrael asked, rather appalled.
“It is not our place to do so,” Uriel responded nonchalantly, “unless we have been commanded.”
Azrael rolled his eyes, looking up to Heaven. “That will be our undoing, brothers,” he muttered.
“So the four remaining Knights, what happened to them Azrael?” Samael asked, trying to keep everyone’s vanity in check.
“I can’t imagine them sitting idle, locked away in some dank, warded hole.” Azrael finally removed his bothersome tie, unbuttoning his collar. His vessel’s thick neck welcomed the relief. “So, I assume that with Dajjal’s assertion as the de facto leader of the demons, they turned against him. As eternal devotees of Lucifer, they drew a proverbial line right there in the salt.”
“Yet one remains?” she asked.
“Yes, I can still feel his essence at times so he escaped the massacre, probably smart enough to make a pact with his host instead of just forcibly possessing him. The rest would likely have done the same if given the opportunity, but were not so lucky.”
“All of this is quite interesting Azrael,” Uriel interrupted, his voice chastising as if he were speaking to a disobedient child. “But you are stalling, steering the conversation away from the real matter at hand. Did you not mention to Samael that the Reapers, amongst other parties, had become interested in the Noctis and their activities? Those harvesters fall under your purview, do they not? You should corral and discipline your rabble.”
Samael grew worried; Uriel unable to focus on anything beyond his own spite toward Azrael. Hesitantly, she peeked over to Azrael, who was not happy in the slightest.
“How dare you? They most certainly do not ‘fall under my purview’ Uriel!” Azrael shouted, a scornful look hurled at the students. “I am able to track souls after death. Reapers are free to do their own thing, as strange a concept as that may be to you, and they collect and ferry souls to their destination. Though they may consume the weakest for sustenance, it is a vital part of the process which they do without orders from me, or anyone else for that matter.”
Uriel was silent and Samael incredibly nervous.
“Why then would they be interested in what is happening here on Earth with the Noctis?” she asked.
“I'm unsure,” Azrael answered much more kindly. “Though I intend to find out. The Reaper that I encountered in Paris was there to collect an artifact, one of those necessary to open the doors of Hell. I want to know what she has planned.”
“Was it the Scythe?” Uriel questioned.
“Indeed,” Azrael said with a nod.
The gathering crew concerned.
“Why her then, and not the Grim himself?” Samael asked, confused. “After all, it is his weapon, is it not?”
“Yes. This was his first and most powerful, lost to Solomon and his meddling affairs. Obviously there is more here than meets the eye and we need more answers before further questions fall from the sky. The movements across the field have been unlike anything that has come before and like I said before, I do not know where this is leading.”
The students all shifted in their seats. “Continue your observations,” Uriel ordered, “and report back to us with news. I will tell the other archangels of what you have told me and we will deliberate on what actions should be taken.”
“Though I do not take orders from you,” Azrael said before graciously bowing, “I shall do my best, Uriel.”
“The Earth is but a drop in a vast ocean of turmoil. Do not stray too far of the path,” Uriel warned, “for we have all been watching the Devil’s Highway and you with great interest.”
Without another word and amidst a resurgent storm of a thousand wings, Azrael vanished from the classroom.
MARCUS KICKED BACK in his ergonomic chair, familiar yet different now that he'd been away for a little while. He looked out across his windowless corner of the corporate world finding that he hadn't missed this drab place at all. Its daunting stacks of paperwork, that he would dive into for hours at a time, were replaced by a love of being out in the world with all of its many colors, smells, and adventures. He longed for more time out there, where his love for a particular person had bloomed; someone whose absence wasn’t making his heart grow fonder, though the hole left behind was certainly growing.
Marcu
s stared at a small photo of himself, catching his attention as it hung on the dingy wall. It was taken right after his induction ceremony and he looked positively cheerful. Beneath that smiling face – one he longed to be wearing now instead of a mopey frown – were the words Aurea Mediocritas. Referencing the ‘golden mean’, which was the desirable center between two extremes like good and evil, the phrase could also be found in the creed that all Journeymen, except Gage of course, had to learn and recite. Marcus had it carved into the old wood frame as a reminder of that day.
His thoughts began to drift.
It had only been a couple days since the meeting in Gatlinburg with Drogir, yet it felt like years with the passing of each excruciating second. Marcus recalled the husky gargoyle speaking to them under the stony entrance to a cave, light sleet falling across musty woods as a smattering of sunlight filtered through the naked branches.
“I concur,” said Drogir. “Your team have done more than any against this threat, so it is the least we can do without storming the walls of that mountain. I’ll make sure to place operatives near Bennett Peak, dedicated to looking for demon signs.”
Gage grumbled. “How ya gonna make sure these guys ain’t suckin’ or gettin’ fucked by demon dick?” he asked bluntly. “I mean, we didn’t know shit until we nearly got our asses handed to us with a pitchfork.”
Drogir was initially caught off guard by the brashness of the question and nearly laughed, regaining his councilor-worthy composure through a deliberate cough and a wing folded over his face. “We’ll… um… need to be vigilant in screening them for such… inclinations, Gage. I would put you in charge of seeking out the ‘demon dicks’ but there is one undeniable caveat: we do not have the luxury of time. We need reliable persons now to immediately and reliably tell us of things happening along the Devil’s Highway, especially if those things concern Joey Mosely or his move.”
A cool breeze blew past the group.
“Do you think that will actually be the case?” Adrienne probed, rubbing her upper arms for some warmth. “That they'll move him, I mean.”
The Devil's Highway (Journeyman Book 4) Page 3