Warring Angel

by Samantha L. Strong

  When Umiet found out I was bringing Chana to the battlegrounds and key historical events, she finally deigned to talk to me after four years of ignoring my existence. I sat in Heppeliam’s old office, hands folded on the desk and wings stiff behind me.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” She peered at me with beady, silver eyes, the likes of which I’d never seen on another angel. She was the first non-human I would have described as ugly, which wasn’t charitable of me, but I wasn’t in a charitable mood.

  “I’m being careful. Besides, do you honestly expect me to train a Cornerstone by locking her in the Archives?”

  She rapped her scarred knuckles on her desk. Is that an affect to go along with her platoon leader persona or are they truly scarred? “I don’t like tattletales. I would have appreciated hearing this from you.”

  I held in a sigh. She had been less than welcoming.

  “The pair who told me this information has been assigned Vycanus duty for a month, and I’m allowing you to continue. You are not to participate in any battles, only observe. At the first sign of trouble, get her out of there, and if necessary, to the Sanctuary preemptively. You know how important she is to this war. If anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected anything else.” I was becoming more sarcastic the more I experienced.

  She stood, pressed her palm to mine, and waved me out of her office.

  “Peace and love to you,” I called as I left.

  CHAPTER 7

  Four and a half years after it began, the Great War wound to a close in exactly the manner the Seraphim had planned. All of Heaven seemed to be holding its breath—the lack of coordinated attack by Asorat was disturbing.

  But Chana was the first to notice that something wasn’t right. The humans conducted their first peace talk in January 1919. “Germany should be here,” she said as we faded into the room before the session began. “This isn’t how it’s done.”

  The noise of dignitaries and their attendants buzzed. Guardians and Nephilim leaned against walls, stood behind humans, and fluttered toward the rafters. English, French, Italian bounced off the high ceiling, and groups of men chuckled and shook hands.

  Fearlings lurked on the boundaries, and a pair of black eyes flashed in the crowd, but that was the same as every other major event we’d attended.

  I cast out my awareness to take in the emotions of the humans. Excitement, but also…

  “They’re angry,” Chana said. “I can feel their anger.”

  I was pleased at her level of empathy. She was going to make an excellent Cornerstone.

  The fury toward Germany seemed a small thing, but the first deviation from the Seraphim’s plan—excluding Germany’s leaders—was disturbing.

  “How is it possible to negotiate a peace treaty with a country if they’re not even invited?” Chana asked.

  “I’m sure the Engineers are working on a new plan.”

  “When the Engineers put together the old plan, they should have foreseen this, at least if they were any good at what they did! How could they have missed this? It’s a simple thing to calculate!”

  I blinked at her. She seemed serious—upset—even offended maybe. I’d seen glimmers of a wildness lurking below the surface, but she almost seemed to be taking this personally. “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”

  She shook her head.

  We continued to attend the Great War’s peace talks, while word reached Heaven that the anger toward Germany was growing in many places, from the highest level government officials to the most common citizens.

  “I really can’t believe this,” Chana exclaimed. “Don’t they understand the consequences of excluding the Germans?”

  “I’m sure that the Seraphim are doing what they can to persuade those in power to bring the German leaders to the talks.”

  “Not them, the humans.” Her brown eyes shone with worry as she looked from Woodrow Wilson to David Lloyd George to Vittorio Orlando to Georges Clemenceau. They were listening to a speaker argue against one of the Fourteen Points. “Why is everyone being so willfully ignorant? If I were an Engineer—” She broke off and then whispered, “I could have done a better job. I know I could have.”

  I had no response to such a presumptuous statement.

  On June 28, 1919, the world leaders met in the Hall of Mirrors to sign the Treaty of Versailles. The back half of the enormous room was full of the press, squashed in elbow-to-elbow and whispering among themselves. A horseshoe table waited in the middle, a pale echo of the much grander one in the top level of the Praetorium. At the front was a small table sitting upon a dais, empty but for the treaty that the dignitaries were going to sign that would strip Germany of its powers.

  “This isn’t right,” murmured Chana at my elbow. Anxiety washed through me. We were pressed along the walls with the other unseen entities, and she was the youngest by far. Five years old, she carried herself with the awkwardness of a teenager, but her observations were wiser than other humans I’d spoken to who had lived multiple lifetimes.

  The diplomats swept through the aisles and sat at the horseshoe table. When it was full, the ushers shushed the crowd, and an uncanny silence, much like the one in the Nexus five years prior, fell over the room. Rustles and coughs broke the quiet.

  Two French judicial officers appeared at the door. Their boots thumped as they progressed toward the front. The four officers—French, American, English, and Italian—were next. The German delegates, unknown and unimportant in the ranks of their military, a calculated insult, scurried along behind. I didn’t have to focus on their emotions to know that they were horribly uncomfortable in this room of people who had made their hatred clear.

  And then a dark figure with black eyes appeared in the doorway. He was broad-shouldered and possessed black wings with flecks of gold threaded within the feathers.

  Tridents rang as the Nephilim called them into existence. Chana gasped and grabbed my arm. Even the humans must have felt the pall he was casting.

  “I am Asorat,” said the demon. In the center of his forehead was a freshly carved swastika, beaded with drops of black blood. That ancient symbol had meant many things to many people, primarily harmony, eternity, and goodwill. Several iterations of the symbol were carved into the floor of the Nexus close to the beam of light.

  “Why is he wearing that?” whispered Chana in my ear. “He can’t be here for peaceful reasons.”

  Georges Clemenceau, the French delegate, broke the human silence. “Gentlemen, we are here to sign a peace treaty.”

  “And I,” said Asorat, “am here to preside over a declaration of war.”

  He strode up the aisle as the delegates began shuffling to the front, one by one, to sign the document lying on the table.

  All angelic eyes followed him. A pair of Nephil moved to block his progress, but he pushed aside their tridents. Asorat continued his slow, steady march forward.

  Another figure stepped through the doorway, and I stifled my gasp.

  Kaspen. My former lover. Angel turned demon. My soul mate. So many words, so many feelings swirled inside me.

  My Fallen former lover’s once beautiful tresses were stringy. His face was pale, especially in contrast to his black wings, also with gold flecks. A matching swastika was carved into his forehead. His cheeks were gaunt, but his jaw was hard and his eyes flashing, the look I’d seen before, when as an angel, he’d protected his Wards from black-eyed demons and their own poor choices. But that felt like a lifetime—or several—ago.

  Why is he coming next? Why do his wings have gold in them? What did Asorat promise him? What does it mean? I feared the answers.

  Following Kaspen were the Fallen Seraphim. Tsusud’s braided hair fell to her waist. Jinotab’s swastika was neat, precise, and lacked the beaded blood of the others’. Beshla walked with a swagger, blowing kisses to the glaring Nephilim.

  Three more demons, unknown to me,
glided in, and then, finally, Kaspen’s Reaper friend, Fanush. She stared into my eyes and held the gaze even as she followed the procession.

  Nine demons. Nine pairs of gold-flecked, black wings.

  Smaller, wingless demons, Fearlings, and Fearmorphs poured into the room, filling up every empty space with their shifting eyes and smirking glances. Each one also had a swastika carved into their foreheads. Several Fearlings were contorted into shape of a swastika, with claws or twisted tentacles for the legs.

  The demon leaders arrived at the front just as a flurry of silver and gold wings erupted overhead. The entire Council and several dozen Archangels hovered under the vaulted ceiling, wings beating furiously.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Serinh’s golden eyes blazed.

  The humans, oblivious to what was happening, continued their halting progress to sign the document. The buzz of conversations picked up, a strange counterpoint to the unseen tension.

  Asorat flapped his massive wings once and rose into the air, meeting Serinh at her level. “So good of you to join us on this momentous occasion.”

  “This is a peace treaty. You mustn’t interfere with the signing.”

  “Oh, I must apologize for the confusion,” said Asorat, “I have no intention of interfering.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I am here to declare our intentions.”

  Serinh gaped.

  “From this day forward, my armies are at war with yours. Your humans, so easy to manipulate, will feed us with the power we need to overthrow your precious Council of Seraphim. We will fight you until the day we invade Heaven and take your power for our own.”

  His voice boomed, and the humans closest to him rubbed their arms and glanced side-to-side. One gazed toward the ceiling, shook his head, and looked again to the document at the front.

  “I am the only fit ruler of Heaven and Earth. Unlike you nine, I am not distracted by petty politics, ridiculous and shifting allegiances, or my own personal goals.

  “I will sweep away your silly Council, and in its place, we will rule. We will usher in an era of peace and prosperity and spiritual growth, the likes of which you were unable to produce after millenniums of dithering and time wasting.

  “Your power will be mine, and I will not rest until it is so.”

  In the stunned silence that followed among the angelic beings, a hush fell over the humans as well, broken only by a delegate scratching his pen across the paper. The noise picked up again as conversations restarted.

  Serinh said, “You mustn’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what I mustn’t do! Even if you weren’t simply a hollow replacement for the void I left, I abandoned Heaven long ago.”

  Serinh had replaced Asorat on the Council? This changed everything. Serinh couldn’t possibly be the Aleph if she was younger than he.

  “I am no longer subject to my colleagues’ whims and desires,” he said. “We will be victorious, no matter the cost. Mark my words. Mark them well.”

  Asorat’s gaze swept over the gathered Seraphim, Archangels, and Nephilim, before landing on me. Chana gripped my arm so tightly she would have left a bruise had we been embodied. I reached out tentatively with my Nephil awareness. Asorat was furious and self-congratulatory and excited.

  “For those who want to be on the right side of this war, we always welcome new soldiers. I can turn the most bookish Keeper into a battle-ready fighter, if they so desire. We accept all, so long as you live by our code of conduct.”

  The demons applauded, I jumped, and Chana whimpered.

  “And now we must depart. Good day to you all.” Asorat swept a graceful bow in the air. “May the most righteous side win.”

  With that, every demon, Fearling, and Fearmorph in the room disappeared, leaving an emptiness despite the crowd of humans gathered around a pitiful piece of paper.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the wake of Asorat’s departure, Archangel battalion leaders shouted commands, Guardians rushed to their humans’ sides, and Serinh’s Praetor voice called over the din, “Emergency meeting of the Council at once!” The humans chattered nervously while the treaty’s signing continued, and soon the room was empty of all Heavenly beings but the white-winged Guardians, myself, and Chana.

  “Shouldn’t you be going to the Praetorium?” she asked.

  “No. We can stay.” I was yet to be included in any Nephilim briefings since my assignment to the Dominions, and I didn’t see that changing merely because Asorat had declared his intentions.

  An iridescent-winged Attendant appeared in front of me, clutching the skirt of her dress. “Excuse me, Enael?”

  I looked around, as though another Enael could possibly be standing behind me. “Yes?” Great, Umiet does want me in the Praetorium. That was the last thing I wanted to listen to right now—all the interesting things my fellow Nephilim would do, while I stood on the fringes with Chana and watched.

  “I’m not really sure how to explain this… I was in the Nexus, and a demon came up to me… She said that her name was Cistena, and she was looking for an angel named Enael…”

  “Cistena’s looking for me?”

  “Who’s Cistena?” asked Chana.

  “She’s…” How would I explain her to Chana? “She’s an old friend.”

  “You have demon friends?”

  “She’s not with Asorat. At least, I’d be surprised if she aligned herself with him.”

  Joining Asorat wasn’t like her. I’d met Cistena when we were Reapers, and after being pushed by the Council, she’d renounced her wings and returned to Voctic’s brothel. She enjoyed people, and Asorat didn’t seem the type who encouraged his followers to have any fun whatsoever.

  Chana was still frowning, so I said, “She and I were partners in a difficult assignment years ago, and we chose different paths.”

  The Attendant cleared her throat. “She said to come to her brothel—er, Voctic’s brothel. But she said it’s hers now.”

  And here I’d thought Asorat’s appearance was the most interesting thing that was going to happen today. “Thank you for finding me. I’ll be off. Chana, go to the Archives and find something to study.”

  “No, I’m coming with you.” She jutted out her chin.

  “I have to go through Hell to get there. I’m not bringing a human.”

  The Attendant spoke up. “Cistena strictly controls who enters and exits the brothel, so she left you a portal in the Garden near your favorite spot. She said you’d know where.”

  Chana’s eyes widened. “Please?”

  She might as well come along. Chana was the closest thing to a friend I’d had in a long time. Whatever Cistena had to say, she could say it to both of us. “Fine. You can come.” To the Attendant, I said, “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

  The signing of the Treaty of Versailles was drawing to a close. An officer was leafing through the papers, and the press was filtering out the back.

  I took Chana’s hand. “Come on, let’s go to the Garden.”

  When we faded into the Garden, an ornate, full-length mirror was propped on the bush I’d found Chana hiding in a year ago. A haze covered the scene I saw within, which showed not the Garden’s reflection, but tables, chairs, and moving figures. Voctic’s brothel.

  Chana lifted a hand to where the glass appeared to be before snatching it away. “It’s not solid.”

  “It’ll take us to where we want to go,” I explained.

  Maybe I should warn Chana about what goes on in a brothel. I wasn’t sure how I would explain prostitution, though. Human sexuality was both simpler and more complex than angelic sexuality. “Anyone ever talk to you about coupling?”

  She snickered, held up a hand, looked guilty. “Sorry. I told you I’m an expert on the Cornerstones. What do you think were the most interesting parts of their lives?”

  Holding in a smile, I took her arm. “Good enough.”

  I tugged her toward the mirror, and we stepped into the mansion th
at used to belong to Voctic.

  The room was busier than I’d ever seen it, except for on the night of the unfortunate events that led to Voctic’s demise, of which I’d been involved in more than I’d wanted to be. Almost every table was full of demons, humans, and Fearmorphs, but the menace from before was gone. Laughter and chatter greeted us rather than suspicious looks and lewd comments. The lighting was brilliant, the walls were splashed with artful swirls of bright colors, and the mood was merry.

  Exactly how I’d imagined Cistena’s brothel would be.

  “I love this place.” Chana’s cheeks flushed. “I feel like it was built just for me.”

  I hadn’t expected to feel excited about being here, but sure enough, anticipation swirled amid my nerves.

  On a sofa next to the portal we’d stepped through, a couple lay entwined. A voice rang out over the din. “Hey! Copulation in the rooms only!” The two broke apart, and, giggling, scurried through a door to disappear deeper into the mansion.

  I looked across the sea of beings to the owner of the voice: Cistena, wearing a flowing, form-fitting, coral dress—and a huge grin.

  “Enael! You’ve come!”

  She scurried across the room to embrace me. The scent of lilacs washed over me—a new addition to her persona—and in my excitement, I cast aside all my worries about the way we’d parted. She’d stayed with Voctic over me but because of the Council’s choices, not mine. When I needed help, she went for Kaspen, although they’d both failed to save me from myself.

  Perhaps the world was better off with Voctic gone. He was at peace now, resting in the Source, something he deserved after what the Aleph had put him through.

  Cistena pulled back and looked me over. “You look fabulous. Being a Nephil suits you. Are you in many battles?”

  I wasn’t keen to explain all my failures in combat, especially not in front of my charge. “Actually, I’ve been training a Cornerstone. This is Chana.”