by Ash Krafton
She was the miracle, not he. He was content to be mundane.
He did not realize he'd fallen until many years later, when the young Lord Wellton's mortal body began to fail to the same familial disease that had prematurely—but serendipitously—eliminated his disapproving father. He needed a new host. Together, he and Luminea spent many dark nights, plotting their next move. They took many long trips, surveying the local gentry. They made many secret inquiries, looking for a new location for their power base.
All was done covertly, and with alacrity. Luminea was not aging as humans did. They couldn't stay forever without rousing suspicions.
She was as clever and as shrewd as any war general. Zophiel simultaneously admired and feared her determination. Piece by piece, their plans fell into line. A secluded estate where they could live in privacy. A handsome young man who looked similar to his current host.
Zophiel rode out one evening to complete the transfer and dispatch the discarded lord.
The moon was full and heavy, casting a noonday brightness upon the manor house. Using his angelic Allure, he drew out the next host and stunned him with a moment of Rapture to hold him still.
He wrenched himself free of his host, preparing the transfer. It needed to be done quickly. The loss of mortal sensation made him feel as if he'd been sealed in a crypt. He couldn't breathe—didn't need to, just wanted to—
And just as he readied to descend, as he tucked his wings around him preparing to force his essence into the new mortal host, he saw them.
His wings. Black as a moonless night. The color of the Fallen. He saw them and he knew.
Steeling his resolve, he shoved his way into the new host, taking possession immediately. A simple mental fist around the old host's throat choked the life out of it. All that had remained to do was stripping it down, destroying its face, and leaving it in the woods for animals to discover.
Hurrying back to the manor, he penned a letter to the host's family, informing them that he was off for the north, and packed up a great deal of the family fortune in a carriage before leaving at dawn.
He didn't tell Luminea about his wings. He simply arrived at their home in his new host, spoke their predetermined phrase, and off they went, taking the fortunes of both aristocrats with them. Luminea cast a Sleep upon Chiara and spent the majority of the ride doing very pleasurable things to Zophiel, things he'd never imagined were possible. To reward him, she'd said. To reward them both.
Apparently, this new form pleased her. He filed it away in his mental vault and succumbed to her charms, body and soul.
Thus, he remained in her thrall.
They had an intense relationship. Master and slave, yet intimate in countless ways. Zophiel had been innocent of the ways of a man and woman, Luminea his dutiful tutor. They never fully consummated their relationship but he hadn't realized it until a serving girl proved to be more than just a person to carry trays from room to room. She'd offered her service in a new way and, one afternoon, taught him something quite astonishing.
Human bodies were designed to fit together.
Luminea, of course, could not know about this excursion. He used the girl frequently, usually after Luminea had been with him. The girl gave him a sense of completion Luminea never offered.
He dared not ask why. This knowledge of mortal intimacy had to have been learned somewhere, and he knew the girl would not survive very long once Luminea learned of her tutoring.
When the wench told him she'd conceived his child, he panicked. The girl had gone from treat to threat with a simple statement. He portaled her out, away, gone, not even thinking twice.
It wasn't until much later that he'd considered the ramifications of fathering children on mortals, when decades of living with the strategic Enochian made him realize the practice may have a tactical value.
So, for centuries they continued their intensely personal relationship, one of dominance and submission. Whenever the heat in his blood grew too fierce to leave half-satisfied, he took it out on mortal women. Often, his heated frustration made the encounters dangerous.
He learned some women enjoyed such activity. He didn't care what they enjoyed. He needed to vent his lust in a non-personal way because he only had room in his heart for one being: Luminea. He served her, worshiped her, and loved her.
And Chiara never knew, not any of it.
Zophiel watched the captive pace the length of her suite, over and over, evaluating the woman who had once been his foster daughter. The need for secrecy, the need to masquerade as Enochian had long since passed by. She knew who he was, now.
Once, Chiara's viewpoints on the necessity of balance and interference would have would have resulted in swift action on her part. He would have been at risk for one of her corrections. He'd kept his secrets carefully hidden, knowing discovery would have brought things to an unpleasant end for him.
A smile ghosted across his face. He no longer needed to pretend because she had been contained. The wards blocked out any divine power that did not stem from him or Luminea. Thusly stripped of her advantages, Chiaroscuro remained firmly within her mother's possession, awaiting the fate that had carefully devised.
There was no other outcome to this situation. There would be no correction.
Zophiel thought about the remainder of Chiara's ignorance—of his physical desires, of his tendencies to vent. That she remained unaware was most definitely for the best.
Because if she knew, she'd be much less willing to cooperate. And, sometimes, a little cooperation went a long, long way, especially when it came to the ways of man and woman.
Chiara didn't turn around when the air changed. She knew it was Zophiel. Even if he hadn't admitted he was an angel, she would have known. She could feel it. Her power was severely hampered her in her mother's fortress, but her blood was still her blood.
The touch of his power made the back of her throat clench. "What do you want?"
"To ready you. Your mother's plans advance."
She spared him a glance, noting the garment bag he carried. "My mother's plans require a costume change?"
"She did not send this." He laid the bag over the chair and slowly unzipped it. Pulling the hanger free of the plastic overlay, he removed a silky scarlet garment. "This will look very lovely on you. Red has always been your color."
She did not agree. Red was the color of lust and anger—two qualities she expressed only on rare occasion. But when she did…oh, they were feelings of the reddest shade, and they fit her more closely than she would ever be comfortable to admit.
Zophiel was pushing her closer to one of those emotions now, and no dress, not even one this low-cut and clingy, would be worth the wrath she would bring.
"Why are you doing this?" She yanked the dress from his hands and flung it to the floor, where it lay in a scarlet puddle. With a toss of her hair she sat down, crossing her arms, lifting her chin in her best impression of her mother. "Why are you still here?
"I am loyal." He seemed unaffected by her outburst. "You have never been able to grasp the concept."
"No, I understand why you are with her. I mean, why are you on this plane? You're an angel. If you Fell, you would be…" She let it trail off, unwilling to choose the wrong word. Such was the danger of living on the silver razor's edge, the line between darkness and light.
"Not all angels Fall into darkness." His voice was mild, coy, teasing. "Some just Fall into a dimly lit place, and they find a new source of light."
"You have no right to be here," she said. Anger was simmering inside her, waiting for another bump in temperature. This creature was an abomination. There were divine rules even she would not break. Zophiel's treachery went beyond needing correction. It required eradication. "You are not a Watcher. You hijacked a human body."
"And so?"
"You deserve exorcism."
"And just who will do it?" Still calm, still serene, he spoke to her as if she were nothing but a silly child. "You seem to forget you are in
a fortress, manned by very loyal hands."
"You are looking at her." She stood and licked her lips. "Your place is–"
He laughed, the first indication of actual emotion, and it was unkind. "Where? Below? No, it isn't. Above? Obviously not. You cannot exorcise me because I have no place else to go."
So. That was the source of his lofty serenity. The unwavering belief that he ran a foolproof plan.
Well. This wouldn't be the first bubble she'd burst. She drew a deep breath and whispered a single, damning word: "Sheol."
He whipped a look at her as if startled by the sound of her voice. As if he hadn't truly known she was there until that moment. "What?"
Too quick, that response. Too quick because it was urged on by alarm. Good. She lowered her voice, settling into a more hypnotic tone, and paced a slow wide circle around him. "You will go to Sheol."
Hot emotion lit his eyes but he said nothing as he followed her path.
"You surrendered your place in Heaven by stealing free will. Your sin has condemned you." She shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know how you did it. Even the Morningstar didn't commandeer true will. Just rebellion. But you—what you did is nothing short of legendary. And it will never be forgotten, not even by the One whose motto is, quite literally, ‘forgive and forget'. Banished from Heaven, even if you were to decide to repent and return. They don't want you anymore. If I pull you out of that mortal body…and if Hell doesn't have your name on its roster…" She smiled, thin and menacing. "That only leaves Sheol."
Zophiel clenched his teeth, his jaw bunching. "You would not dare."
"Would I not?" She arched a brow at him.
It drove him deeper into his indignation, making his voice gravelly. "Who are you, that you would dare murder an angel?"
"Oh." She clucked her tongue. "I would never murder. Not an angel, not anyone. That would be…unforgivable. I would only restore a balance. I would right a wrong."
"You would kill this mortal body." He thumped his palms against his chest. "End this life."
"You ended it the minute you stole it." She flexed her fingers, rubbing her hands together. "Your exile to Sheol is deserved."
"Be that as it may. I am firmly beyond the reach of judgment."
He was, was he? Her reach was longer than he suspected. She tugged the tin of chrism out of her pocket and popped it open. She'd stuff it down his throat, if she had to.
Mouth set in a grim line, she quickly scooped out a handful of the sparkling gel and launched herself at him.
He portaled, sidestepping her as if she were a bumbling toddler, and landed a massive blow between her shoulders that sent her crashing into the coffee table.
The chrism slipped out of her fingers, the largest portion slopping onto the carpet, where it melted before her eyes, drunk in by the twisted wards that had once belonged to the Light.
Several globs of the holy salve splashed onto her exposed skin, causing slick stings wherever it landed. Her neck scalded, her cheek burned. Frantically, she scrubbed the chrism away, her fingertips red and raw from prolonged contact with the powerful relic.
Zophiel roughly yanked her to her feet and grabbed her chin, peering at the smear of sparkling wetness a moment. Slowly, deliberately, he licked it off her cheek.
She twisted away but he held her fast. It was lewd and intimate and revolting—
And terrifying. Her greatest weapon, useless, because an angel couldn't be hurt by weapons forged to fight the Darkness.
"No." He laughed and shoved her away, eyes alight with a cruel joy. "There will be no retribution. There will only be me, getting what I want, and you, doing it for me."
She covered her tender cheek, the heat from her hand amplifying the pain. "Which is?"
"Providing your illustrious mother with her most deserved posterity."
"Don't get your hopes up." Straightening, she sniffed, disdain in every stubborn line of her body. "I won't be starting a family any time soon."
"Perhaps you haven't met the right man. Don't worry." He leered and gave her a lingering up and down look as he sauntered past. "Fate has a funny way of making things work out around here."
"By the way," he said. He paused by the mirror, fingering his hair back into place. "I'm rather thrilled to see you like things rough. It will keep things interesting. How do you feel about…bondage games?"
With a twist of his wrist, he used his power to pull her hands overhead, binding her wrists with an unseen force. A chain manifested from the ceiling, a hook dangling from the end. Gesturing with his fingers again, he secured her bindings to the chain and hoisted her.
She had to go up on tiptoe to maintain contact with the floor.
Smiling his approval, Zophiel winked at her. "You hang out here a while. I'll be back for you, soon enough."
Blowing a kiss to her, he portaled out of sight.
Fighting to breathe, every muscle screaming, Chiara dangled from the chain, very much at the mercy of an angel who had forgotten the face of God.
Simon needed someplace clean.
After the fitful sleep and trip down Devil's Lane, he needed out of the city, out of the noise and the smoke and the pulse of mechanical life. His double sight was doing overtime down here. So many shadows, so many demtrails, as he'd started calling those black strings—it all pulled in in every direction as once. His blood hummed with a constant zip of the other magic, demanding action, leading him to decisions and impulses that were not his own.
He didn't like feeling like he was a remote-controlled toy. He had a mission. He was in charge of this rescue operation. Not him. Lucifer was acting like the world's most annoying back seat driver.
He tried body dousing a few times, just closed his eyes and let his feet do the walking. His magic and his connection to the magicks within the earth usually led him where he needed to go. Figured like a scientific thing to do. Although he picked several different starting points around town, they always lead to the same block of downtown near the aquarium. And he always arrived in a seriously dangerous mood.
Easy to blame that on the Devil.
So, it was time to go someplace Lucifer didn't want to go. He burned a little chicory, spoke a little spell, and hitched a quick ride east toward Druid Hills. Sounded magic enough on the map. When he arrived, he discovered the ley lines were swollen with potential. Heap big magic.
Just what he liked.
He found a dense, wooded park in the north hills that insulated him from society, from traffic, from sound. It didn't take long for him to erect a stone circle. Nothing grand, like a stone raising; just a simple, earthy ring that drew on the power of the ley and the Druidic tradition he'd learned long ago. Hey, when in Druid Hills, right?
The circle was cool and fresh, like new grass and mountain spring and starlight on a December night. Its energy was serene: a swaying, a hummed chant, a melody that modern man had forgotten how to sing. Stone circles weren't difficult to master, not the construction, anyway. The hard part came after.
The hard part was accepting what the circle wanted to give.
The circle was a templum, an observatory. Mages used them to seek, to gain vision. More often than not, the circle made more than a ring, a boundary, a focal point. It required the user to become part of it.
That meant letting go of certain things.
He'd stone-circled before. A great meditation exercise. The perfect excuse to stop beating himself up over something he couldn't fix back then and sure as hell couldn't fix now. Crossing over acted like a big eraser, like the magnetic bar you slid across one of those old iron-shaving drawing board toys. The circle acted like a sieve, just strained out all the parts it didn't want within its ring.
Surveying his works, he slapped his hands on his jeans to brush them off. It was a good circle. A good place to hide while he got a grip on what he had to do next.
Pretty soon the sun would climb high enough to pierce the tree coverage and bake him right out of his little circle of serenity. Time to cross.
He stepped over the circle, feeling the first tingles before his foot even hit the ground inside. The tingles grew into pricks, the pricks into outright stabs. He felt like he had charged headlong into a briar patch. One foot in, one foot out, his whole body burned—
His first instinct was to get right back out. The circle had other ideas.
One foot was planted firmly within the ring. Rocking backwards with all his weight did nothing. Grunting with exertion, he stopped short of grabbing his thigh with both hands and yanking. No such thing as playing stone circle hokey pokey. Once you started to cross, you crossed all the way. Stones didn't like to be toyed with.
Hesitating on the threshold wouldn't alleviate the pain, either. So only one thing he could really do.
Closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, he crossed over, pushing deeper through the briars, feeling like bleeding to death was a real possibility if this energy took on physical substance.
Suddenly, the circle's border released him and he stumbled into the ring with a nearly-audible pop. Once inside, the sensation faded. But the scenery was drastically changed.
The sun-splattered leafy green forest had disappeared. A protective dome of magic formed a hemisphere that covered the circle, holding back a red-orange haze that pulsed like a bloody fog. The ring of power formed something like a glass hemisphere around him.
The fog seethed, glowing with a sullen pulse. It didn't like being left outside.
He drew a slow steadying breath, looking back at the power the circle had prevented from entering. That was Lucifer out there, or at least the part he'd been lending to him. He glanced down at the bend of his arm, at his tattoo. The outer ring was still there, but it was translucent, as if it had been drained of ink.
In the past, stone circles were a handy way to refresh a soul, sweep offending thought and emotion away, renewing the spirit. Looks like it worked on more than just the mental demons.