by Nic Widhalm
The elderly man only shook his head, silent. Victor grit his teeth in frustration, then turned and waved his two companions toward a tunnel on their left. The boyish-looking fellow followed Victor and Squeaky-laugh, his eyes still wide. There was something there, Valdis knew, but he forced himself back to the three judges. The boy could wait.
The three watched Valdis and Jackie from the wooden podium, their faces grave. Valdis gulped audibly, which brought a smile to the white-bearded “General.”
“No reason to fret, my friends,” the General said in a friendly voice. “Despite appearances this is just a…well, let’s call it an informal gathering. No death sentences today.”
The woman seated next to him, a matron with deep, hard lines in her face and severe gray-brown hair, shot the General a withering look. “Don’t coddle them, Ezekiel. This is serious.”
The elderly man rolled his single eye, but dropped the smile. He nodded and motioned for the matron to continue. She looked back at the priest and the detective, her mouth pressed in a tight line. “Anthony Valdis.”
The priest jumped a little at his name. He knew many nuns who would have killed for the authority in this woman’s voice. She was only a few years older than Valdis, but at the moment he felt like a kid who had been caught goofing off in Sunday school. He tentatively met the matron’s eyes, and gave her a strangled smile. “Yes maam?”
“We have been following your work for some time. Considering the content of your writings, coupled with the fact that you have managed to find your way to the Order, I don’t expect this will come as a surprise.”
Valdis glanced over at Jackie, but she was staring at the floor, chewing her lower lip. No help there. The priest shrugged. “I had my suspicions. My area of study draws a certain kind of attention.”
“Yes, we’ll need to address that at some point.”
The General, Ezekiel, snorted. “Get to the point, Mary. We don’t have all night.”
Mary frowned, a bloom of red rushing to her cheeks, then snapped back to Valdis, her lips pressed even tighter. “What is surprising, Father Valdis, is that you arrived here. In Jerusalem. Right on our doorstep. How you ascertained our location is a discussion for—”
“It took me quite awhile, actually. The first clue was a change in translation when I looked at the original Hale Enochian versus—”
“Yes,” Mary bit the word, silencing Valdis. “Like I said, we’re aware of your academic skills, Father Valdis. I’m not surprised you found us. I am surprised, however, that you would choose to approach us in this manner; running all over Jerusalem like a lost child. And to bring a civilian…” The matron shook her head.
“Madam—Captain, yes?” Valdis stammered. “Allow me to apologize. I had planned on a better time and place to formally petition the Order, but circumstances have changed. Our need is such that—”
Jackie suddenly stood and Valdis stopped, his eyes widening in horror. No, oh God, please just keep her silent. I’m so close to the answer!
“Where’s Friskin?” Jackie demanded. Her voice was commanding but Valdis thought he saw uncertainty in her eyes.
The three figures looked at her, their faces unreadable. Valdis swallowed against the rising gorge in his throat. Jackie looked back and forth between the three, and focused on the elderly man, Ezekiel. “You,” she pointed at him. “I doubt anything happens in this rat’s nest without your approval. I don’t know why the priest brought us here, and right now I really don’t care. You show us what you did with Friskin, or forget about getting one more fucking answer out of us.”
“Detective,” Valdis whispered frantically.
Jackie shot him a dirty look and turned back to the General. “What’ll it be?”
Ezekiel stared at her, his one good eye traveling up and down her figure in frank assessment. He drummed his gnarled fingers against the wood of the podium, his lips twisting back and forth. Finally, his drumming ceased and he smiled broadly, revealing a mouth full of broken black teeth.
“You certainly live up to your reputation, Detective Riese. I had heard you were…blunt.”
“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”
“Very well, my dear. Your friend, I believe you call him…Hunter?” Ezekiel looked over at Mary, who gave a small nod, and then back at Jackie. “He is well. Better off than you two, truth-be-told, and in a much better position.”
“I want to see him,” said Jackie.
“No,” the General said, still smiling.
“I…” Jackie opened her mouth, then closed it again. Valdis tried to hide his grin. Jackie Riese was as subtle as a bull in a china shop, and used to getting her way. The priest had seen her cow police officers, priests, even Apkallu. But she wasn’t used to the same stubbornness she directed at others. Valdis watched as the detective struggled for something to say, then finally gave up and sat back down.
“General,” Valdis rose as Jackie sat, his hands clasped before him. “Again, I apologize for the manner of our arrival. I understand how important secrecy and protocol are to the Order—I have spent much of my life studying your history. Believe me when I say this wasn’t how I had intended our first meeting to go. Fate, however, has tipped our hand.”
It was Mary who snorted this time, but the General didn’t even glance in her direction. He kept his eye glued to Valdis.
The priest took a deep breath and continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now what has occurred in Denver. You’ve met Hunter Friskin. You know what he is. So the reason for our journey is two-fold, and I wish to express our gratitude for the first part. Both the detective and myself have a vested interest in Hunter, and had planned on seeking your assistance in keeping him safe. It would appear his life is in jeopardy from both the Adonai and Elohim.”
“First time they’ve agreed on something in four thousand years,” a voice said softly from the far side of the podium. Valdis turned slightly and saw the young man—the one who had remained silent up til now—watching the priest with intense, deep-set eyes. His hair fell in wavy lengths to his shoulder, framing his face in a blond halo. He wasn’t an attractive man, despite his unusual hair; his nose was far too large, dominating half his face, and his eyes were set far apart in a frog-like expression. But his chin was strong, and his eyes burned with a fanatical glow. Valdis knew the young man was more than he seemed. Despite his age he sat at the table with the two oldest and most respected leaders of the Order of Venus. In all Valdis’ research he had never heard of such a thing.
“Quiet, Eli,” the General said in an affectionate tone. “Let the man talk.”
Valdis took another breath, gripping his hands so tightly they began to grow numb. Here we go. “The second part,” Valdis said, “is to beg for answers.”
The General leaned back, pursing his lips. His fingers went back to their tat-a-tat drumming. As the silenced built, Mary looked back and forth between the General and Valdis, her face darkening. “Ezekiel,” she snapped. “You know the law.”
The General said nothing, continuing to drum his fingers.
“He’s made it this far, Captain,” the young man with the wide nose said. “What harm is answering a few questions?”
“We don’t share Order business, boy,” Mary bit each word, glaring at the young man called Eli. “We’ve kept our secrets safe for thousands of years because we stick to the law.” She turned back to the General. “You of all people know that.”
The General remained silent, but the cadence of his fingers was slowing.
Now! Valdis shouted at himself. Do it now, old man!
“That’s true!” Valdis suddenly said, his voice louder than intended. Eli and Mary, who had been staring daggers at each other, turned slowly to the priest.
“I mean…the part about the law. That’s true,” Valdis mumbled, his cheeks aflame. Nice work, bookworm. “But you misunderstand me,” he continued. “I’m not asking you to break your laws, or even make an exception. The truth…” Valdis took one more deep br
eath, hoping the judges on the podium couldn’t see him cross his fingers. “The truth is I have the right to demand answers.”
“Oh?” The General stopped drumming and leaned forward. “And why is that?”
“My father, Niccoli Valdis. He was a member of the first choir, second order—a Cherubim of the Adonai. And as his blood heir I present myself formally to the Order of Venus, also known as the Order of the Morning Star.” Valdis tried not to look at Jackie, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her staring at him with her mouth open, eyes wide.
The judges were silent. Mary studied the podium, her eyes distant and thoughtful; Eli focused on Valdis with a hungry look, his face fevered; the General only pursed his lip thoughtfully. Finally the General leaned forward and asked, “What is it you wish to know, Nephilim?”
“Well,” Valdis cleared his voice. “I guess…everything.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The early morning light was just breaking over the mountain peaks when Hash made his way back to the citadel of the Elohim. His team limped in, two cars pockmarked with bullet-spray and dark reddish-brown splotches. They had taken the Humvees to ensure a modicum of speed on the back roads, but now, as they straggled back to the fortress, Hash regretted the decision. The vehicles looked like they had just escaped a scene from Mad Max, and had garnered the attention of every passerby on their way back. Unfortunately, the Elohim didn’t have a Cherubim to cloud prying eyes. There had been some uncomfortable questions from police officers on their final stretch up I-70, before they made the turnoff that led them away from civilization.
Hash had been forced to handle the officers in a manner he found distasteful.
And now, a minute back from their disastrous mission, Hash had barely changed his blood-splattered shirt before there was a rap on his door.
“God dammit,” he muttered, shrugging into a white tee and hurrying to the door. Swinging it open he saw the upraised fist of Mika’il’s secretary, Phaleg. The small, mousy-looking Angel lowered his hand and straightened his long coat.
Hash glowered at the little man. “What?”
“Hashmal,” Phaleg squirmed under Hash’s frown, his voice warbling slightly. “You are summoned. Your present duties are suspended. In all matters physical and spiritual you are to present yourself to Mika’il, the Great Prince, Leader of Hosts…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Her fucking Royal Majesty. I get it.” Hash closed the door on the mousy Angel and turned to grab the few supplies he had taken on the mission. He’d expected the Seraphim’s summons, but in the back of his mind Hash had hoped he might get a few hours’ sleep first. He’d already fought one battle this evening, now it was on to the next.
“Hashmal,” Mika’il greeted the Domination as he entered her spartan chamber. “Prompt as usual.”
In his forty years at the citadel of the Elohim, Hash had never been invited to Mika’il’s room. Normally, the Seraphim took her audiences in one of the training chambers, the room adapting to fit the nature of each meeting. Hash glanced around the Seraphim’s room now, noting the wood floors and utilitarian furniture. He nodded imperceptibly. The room was large but practical. A soldier’s room.
“Commander,” Hash bowed his head slightly. He was fortunate that Mika’il wasn’t a ruler who demanded embarrassing displays of subservience from her soldiers. The tall, statuesque leader lowered her head in kind, then motioned for Hash to sit. The Domination waited for Mika’il before seating himself in a sleek, black chair. Wincing, he tried to settle his bruised body against the hard seat. Noticing his discomfort, Mika’il snapped her fingers and the large stone door opened slightly. Phaleg poked in.
“Bring Amael,” the Seraphim said.
“That’s not necessary—” Hash began, but the secretary had already left. A moment later he returned, a slim woman with chestnut hair and Asiatic features following him. Hash recognized the Principality from previous sessions. Mika’il stood, allowing the woman space to work.
As the Prince knelt before him Hash muttered a brief thank you, then grit his teeth as the familiar freezing touch fell over him. His body shook, spasming in short, frenetic bursts against the hard chair. Then Amael’s hand left the Domination’s arm, and a warm lethargy rolled across him. The Principality bowed to Mika’il and exited the room, remaining silent as the heavy door closed behind her.
Hash rotated his shoulder experimentally, marveling at the smooth, painless motion. He’d been healed more times than he could remember, but was still surprised each time.
“Better?” The Seraphim asked, seating herself. Hash noticed the smooth, white flash of leg as Mika’il crossed her ankles, but kept the thought from going any further. He had stopped thinking of Mika’il as a woman the first time he saw her rip the throat from an Adonai Arch. Now, she was no more than his commanding officer.
“Much.” Hash replied. He didn’t elaborate; previous meetings had shown him it was best to let Mika’il lead the conversation.
“Good. Let’s begin.” The Seraphim leaned against her chair, studying the Domination. “What would you say your job is, Hashmal?”
“I’m one of your field commanders, Mika’il. My job is…” Hash shook his head minutely, searching for the right word. He’d never had to explain it before. “To…”
“To win battles,” Mika’il finished. “You’re a leader. Your job is to win.”
Hash nodded.
“Need I mention the disconnect between your job and tonight’s fiasco?”
“Mika’il, there’s no excuse. I was overconfident and didn’t plan for the humans. I was so focused on the Adonai—”
Mika’il waved dismissively and looked aside, her eyes growing distant. Hash waited.
“It’s not your fault, Hashmal,” Mika’il finally said. “I would have done the same in your position.”
Hash paused. Was this a trap? “Even so,” Hash said slowly, “Hunter should never have been in that position. I should have been prepared.”
“Why? Did you expect Bath and his heretics to try and reclaim him, even after the agioi made it clear he was ours? There was no way to anticipate that. The Adonai don’t kidnap Elohim. They kill them.” Mika’il shook her head, “I don’t blame you.”
Hash shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Why was he being told this? Mika’il’s talks were usually brief and to the point—as terse as her bedchamber.
Hunter, Hash thought. Everything about that kid ends up biting me in the ass.
“Never mind the battle, Hashmal. I didn’t summon you to discuss the evening’s events, I have another matter that requires your talents.”
“I’m yours,” Hash said, echoing the first words Mika’il had said to him all those years ago, when he had been just a child picking pockets so he could afford to eat. She looked the same now as she did forty years ago.
Mika’il stood and began to pace behind her chair. “What do you think of the boy?” Her question was quiet, phrased so Hash wasn’t sure if he should respond. He gave her a moment, then hazarded an answer.
“I think he is—was—a good student. Had a few problems getting his paradox straight, but they say the most powerful start the slowest. He was a good lad. A good soldier. A little obstinate when it came to certain things, but—”
“Obstinate?”
“Well,” Hash fidgeted. “He had this annoying habit of questioning every little thing and then thinking he already knew the answer. Not to mention stubborn as all hell and couldn’t focus worth a damn unless he was getting beat to a pulp.” Hash smiled, remembering the way his pupil used to grin after a good shit-kicking.
“So he was a normal acolyte? Nothing unusual?” Mika’il asked, her feet tracing the route between fireplace and chair.
“Well…” Hash drew the word out. Watch it, Eric, he warned himself. She’s baiting you.
“There were certain—things.” Hash said, diplomatically. Mika’il turned and raised an eyebrow. Hash swallowed, continuing, “He was pretty concerned with human
s, for one.”
“Hah,” Mika’il waved dismissively. “They all are at first. It’s irritating, but hardly unusual. I’m talking something out of the ordinary, Hashmal.”
There was no getting around it. She was his Seraphim. Squaring his shoulder, he said, “He was able to disobey my orders.”
Mika’il nodded, unsurprised, then seated herself. “Exactly. Impossible for a Power.”
“It should be,” Hash said. “I mean, is it possible…could he be something else?”
Mika’il studied the Domination, the moment stretching uncomfortably long. Then, when Hash was about to take the silence for dismissal and leave, the Seraphim nodded. “Maybe.”
“But the agioi—”
“Is never wrong. I know,” Mika’il placed a languid finger against her lip. “So where does that leave us?”
“Mika’il, I’m not sure what you want from me,” Hash said bluntly. “I only trained the boy for a month. I barely knew him.”
“But you cared for him? You warned him he was in danger?”
Hash’s mouth dropped open. It was impossible, he’d been miles away…
Mika’il smiled darkly. “You should know better than to hide things from me, Hashmal. You are mine. My Domination.”
The squat man dropped to his knees, pressing his head tightly to the smooth wood floor. “I beg your forgiveness, Seraphim.”
“Oh get up. You know I can’t stomach that nonsense.”
Hash rose to his feet, knees watery. Mika’il glanced at the chair and Hash almost tripped over himself rushing to sit back down. He stared at the tall woman, nostrils flaring, heart racing.
“You know I’m not in the habit of forgiving, and yet today I’ve made an exception. Twice.” She smiled at the terrified man. “I understand. There’s something about Hunter, something that makes you want to protect him. I felt it myself when we first met, and I saw its effects on you and the other Elohim. My question, Hashmal, is whether your loyalty is to your student,” her smile disappeared, “or your superior.”