The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel

by David Mack

  “What … who … are you?”

  It answered in whispers of smoke and song, with a voice Cade felt more than he heard.

  I AM YOUR BOND-SPIRIT, GESHURIEL.

  The claim struck Cade as improbable. Adair had told him he was bonded before birth to an angel, yet this creature was drab, like exhausted wash water. “You’re an angel?”

  I AM A SERAPH, THE HIGHEST ORDER OF ANGEL.

  “No offense, but I expected something a bit more…”

  GRANDIOSE? MY KIND AND I HAVE, IN THE PAST, EMPLOYED SUCH DECEPTIONS WHEN NECESSARY. BUT I AM BONDED TO YOUR SOUL AND THEREFORE ENJOINED FROM LYING TO YOU. YOU SEE ME AND MY KIND AS WE ARE, NOT AS YOUR ROMANTICS WOULD HAVE US BE.

  More entities became visible around them. A handful were ashen shadows that lingered without apparent agenda or urgency. Others, though smaller, blazed with white light so intense it seemed as if it should hurt to look at them, yet Cade felt no need to avert his gaze. He faced GESHURIEL. “Those gray shadows? More angels?”

  WATCHERS. MINOR SPIRITS OF LITTLE IMPORT.

  “What about the others—the walking bonfires?”

  DO YOU NOT RECOGNIZE YOUR FELLOW MEN?

  The angel’s reply compelled Cade to look again with new expectations. Piercing the auras he saw the faces of men he recognized—Sergeant Sykes, Lieutenant Leagans, Corporal Pawlikowski. He remained perplexed. “Why don’t angels shine like men?”

  IT HAS EVER BEEN THUS. SUCH IS THE WILL OF THE DIVINE.

  Below them, the Rangers huddled around Cade’s unresponsive body. The medic worked like a man possessed, and the lieutenant and the sergeant got their hands into the mix. From his elevated vantage, Cade thought their efforts looked nothing less than heroic.

  Another question returned his focus to the angel. “Why am I seeing you now?”

  BECAUSE YOUR SOUL STRAINS ITS TETHER TO YOUR DAMAGED FLESH.

  “No—I know my body’s dying. What I mean is: Why didn’t I see you before? When I spent sixteen months lying in a bed in Scotland. Where were you then?”

  AT YOUR SIDE, AS I AM NOW. AS I WILL REMAIN UNTIL YOUR END.

  “But why didn’t I see you?”

  YOUR SPIRIT WAS SET IN STASIS BY MAGICK, AS IF SEALED IN AMBER. IN THAT STATE NOTHING COULD YOU PERCEIVE—NOT EVEN MY PRESENCE.

  On the ground, the medic grew visibly frustrated. Reading the grim expressions on the faces of Sykes and Leagans, Cade asked GESHURIEL, “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

  IT IS THE FATE OF ALL THINGS UNDER HEAVEN. ONLY THE EMPYREAN IS ETERNAL.

  “When I die, will you bring my soul to Heaven?”

  THAT IS NOT MY PURPOSE.

  “But could you take me there?”

  IF THAT IS YOUR COMMAND.

  “My command?” Cade pondered the implications of the angel’s statement. “You have to obey my commands?”

  UNTIL DEATH SEVERS OUR BOND, YES.

  Temptation harrowed Cade’s thoughts—there were so many questions he wanted to ask his parents, so many things he wanted to tell them, not least of which was good-bye. Could it really be within his reach? He had to know. “I want you to take me to Heaven.”

  I THINK YOU ARE MISTAKEN.

  “I’m not asking your advice. I’m making this a command. Take me to Heaven.”

  AS YOU COMMAND, SO MOTE IT BE.

  Together they ascended, leaving behind Cade’s ravaged meat on the dusty ground of Pointe du Hoc, climbing instead through the invisible maelstrom, into an endless silver sky. Pale clouds gathered behind them, stealing the earth from view, until the two of them were all that seemed to exist in an ethereal realm of alabaster mist and ivory shadows.

  “Why did you accept bonding? To me, specifically, I mean.”

  IT WAS THE WILL OF THE DIVINE.

  “That’s the only reason?”

  WE ARE MESSENGERS AND SERVANTS. WE OBEY THE WILL OF THE DIVINE.

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  THE ANGELS WHO REBELLED WERE CAST DOWN INTO THE FLAME EVERLASTING. THEY ARE THE FALLEN. THE SCORNED. AFTER THEIR FALL, THE DIVINE STRIPPED US ALL OF FREE WILL.

  Without warning they pierced a pearly veil and left behind the blank void of eternity for a realm of sallow shores beneath a platinum dome of sky. A dim orb of light perched on the wide horizon, casting its pale glow across a becalmed sea the color of pewter.

  Ashen shadows wandered the shoreline and floated in droves overhead, all droning the same monotonous but mellifluous song, their voices melodic but bereft of inspiration. It was a realm of cold beauty and devotion devoid of passion.

  As Cade and GESHURIEL flew inland, over broad plains swaying with cinereous waves of grain, all Cade saw were endless legions of gray presences serenading the stark, distant sun.

  “Is this a trick?”

  THIS IS HEAVEN.

  “Then where are the souls of the dead?”

  THERE ARE NO HUMAN SOULS IN HEAVEN. The angel’s reply was so flat and matter-of-fact that it filled Cade’s essence with dread. Then it asked, WHAT DID YOU HOPE TO FIND?

  “It doesn’t matter. Can you take me to Hell?”

  THAT WOULD BE UNWISE.

  “Answer me: Can you bring me safely into and back out of Hell?”

  I AM CAPABLE OF SUCH A JOURNEY.

  “Then let’s go. Now.”

  The angel offered no further argument. It extended its wing of pallid smoke around Cade and carried him upward, away from the monotony of Heaven, into the blanched ether between realms. Forever they seemed to beat on against an unseen current, tiny vessels fighting against an upswell of darkness that resisted their approach.

  In time Cade noted the darkening of the void. Dolorous cries rose up on chilling tides. It took Cade a moment to realize it wasn’t a physical sensation of cold—it was a manifestation of despair, of hopelessness, and of utter seething contempt.

  Before he realized they were there, sooty clouds engulfed him and GESHURIEL. Cade imagined it was like diving into the tower of smoke crowning a wildfire.

  The longer they fell, the louder and more dissonant became the music from below. Cade recognized the hideous mockery of melody: it was the Infernal orchestra of PAIMON, a great king of Hell, an angel fallen from the Order of Dominations—and Adair’s demonic patron.

  GESHURIEL parted the ebon clouds, revealing the dark majesty that sprawled across the scorched, cratered landscape below. The city of Dis, the metropolis of the Fallen: nine concentric circular tiers cut into the black rock of Hell, the outermost ring level with the surrounding charred plain, and each successive inner tier set miles deeper than the last. The city was hundreds of miles in diameter, and its tiers were spiked with marvels of demonic architecture. Rivers of sludge flowed in endless circles within the top tier; the next level sported rivers of blood. Beyond that, Cade was unable to pierce the undergloom’s shadows—though the ring-shaped lake of fire at the pit’s nadir was impossible to miss.

  “Closer,” Cade commanded, and again GESHURIEL complied. He wanted to see the souls trapped in the city. If it was to this forsaken place that his parents’ souls had been condemned, Cade had to see it for himself. He needed to know.

  Speeding as one, he and GESHURIEL raced over the capital of Hell.

  The only denizens Cade saw in its pits of torment, in its boulevards of shadow and regret, were the shades of the Fallen, whose hues were darker than those of the angels but otherwise not substantially different. Nowhere did he see the luminous shimmers he had glimpsed on the battlefield of Pointe du Hoc. Not a single human soul.

  Cade hovered silently, in shock, above the center of Dis. Stricken, he faced GESHURIEL once more. “Where are they?”

  WHO?

  “The souls of the damned.”

  THERE ARE NONE.

  “What do you mean?”

  THERE ARE NO HUMAN SOULS IN HELL.

  Cade’s imagination reeled. “What about Limbo? Or Purgatory?”

  THERE ARE NO SUCH REALMS, EXCEPT IN HUMAN FICTIONS.

 
; Staring down into the Flame Everlasting, Cade felt the first stirrings of true despair. “I … I don’t understand.”

  YES, YOU DO, the angel said, its tone now one of pity. BUT YOU DO NOT WANT TO.

  52

  JULY

  Wet wood smoked inside the iron stove, stubborn in its refusal to catch fire. Outside the window of Anja’s lakeside cabin, rain fell in silver whispers. A chill crept under the front door in spite of the rug she had piled up against it. Against her frugal instincts, she baptized the damp log with a few of her last remaining drops of kerosene. At last the fire took hold. The black wood reddened, and a minute later its sodden core let out a snap, the sound of winter’s embrace being broken. She warmed her hands and looked forward to a warm night’s sleep.

  She stood, turned, and recoiled at the sight of an intruder—

  “Hello, lass. Long time.” It was Adair. Or, rather, a shade of him, an astral projection, shimmering and translucent, standing in the center of her abode in the middle of nowhere. The sight of him rekindled all her feelings of shame for having abandoned him.

  “How did you find me?”

  “How do you think?” A prankster’s grin. “Magick.”

  She shook her head, refusing to believe. “I’m warded.”

  “Lass, I put that ink on your back with my own hand.”

  It made sense: Who better to circumvent a charm than its maker?

  She feigned nonchalance and went about preparing a mug of tea. “So … you could have found me any time you wanted? Congratulations. It took you over two years.”

  “Only because I wasn’t looking.” He cast appraising looks around her abode. “Rustic. I approve. Where are we, exactly?”

  “About a mile outside Nikkaluokta.” Noting the master’s interrogative glance, she clarified, “Northern Sweden. About thirty miles from the Norwegian border.”

  “Ah. I’m guessing you’re not here for the nightlife.”

  “In fact the northern lights are quite beautiful, but it is not the season for them.” She picked up a bellows and used it to breathe life into her fire. “Why were you not looking?”

  “Pardon?”

  “For me. You said you were not looking. Why not?”

  Adair shrugged. “I assumed you had your reasons for leaving.” He wandered the cabin’s main room and pretended to take an interest in its knickknacks—snowshoes, fishing gear, skis, Anja’s military ruck, her Mosin-Nagant rifle. “I respected your right to be left in peace.”

  “Does that mean you forgive me for leaving?”

  “A conversation for another time.”

  She regarded her feet to avoid Adair’s eyes. “Then why are you here?”

  “I need your help.” When she looked up, he continued. “It’s Cade. He’s dying.”

  Cade’s memory still filled Anja with resentment. “What happened?”

  “He landed with the troops in Normandy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he fucking had to, that’s why. The rest doesn’t matter.” The master calmed himself. “Army docs patched him up on the beach, then shipped him back to England. He’s in the Royal Victoria Hospital, in Netley, near Southampton Dock.”

  She framed her concern as curiosity. “How bad is it?”

  Adair was despondent. “A coma. A real one, this time.”

  “Prognosis?”

  “Not good. Not fucking good, at all.” He tried to take her hand, but his passed through hers, an illusion without substance. He settled for looking her in the eye. “He needs you.”

  “No. He does not. He has you.”

  “Lass, I’ve done all I can, but healing was never my forte. Not like it is for you.” Sorrow shone in his eyes. “It’s not just Cade who needs you. I need you, too. Please come back.”

  It was a greater burden than she was willing to bear. “Master … I cannot.” She turned a desperate eye toward the hills and mountains outside her window. “It took me a long time to find a place where I could be at peace.”

  “You can have peace when the war’s over.”

  “But the war never ends. That is what you always taught me.” She fixed him with a hard look. “I have been free of demons for months. I almost feel sane again. Some days I make it from dawn to dark without taking a drink.” She went to the stove, where steam jetted from the spout of her kettle. She lifted it from the cooktop and filled her mug, then sank a steel tea ball into it. The aroma of the steeping tea was at least a partial balm for her anger. “I am not sure I want to take up the Art again so soon—or maybe ever.”

  He was horrified. “Don’t say that! To lose a karcist like you at a time like this—”

  “You lost me two years ago.”

  “You can come home.”

  “Home.” His saccharine platitude dredged up memories raw and painful. “I tried to go home.… It was no longer there.”

  His entreaty took on a note of desperation. “You don’t have to stay. Just help me bring him back to the land of the living. After that? Fall off the face of the earth if that’s your wish.”

  She let out a derisive bark of a laugh. “You make it sound so simple! And how would I get to you? It is not as if I can travel freely. The Swedes hate Russians. So unless you have one of your precious mirrors somewhere nearby—?”

  “Afraid not. But even if I did, we couldn’t use it. Kein’s watching for that, now. And I can’t take a chance on leading him straight to Cade, not when the lad’s this vulnerable.” His brow crinkled. “Can’t you fly back?”

  “I have not agreed to come.”

  “But if you did? Humor me.”

  The prospect of resuming a magickal regimen dismayed Anja to her core. “I would have to check my ephemeris for the best date and hour. Fast and meditate for three days. Scribe my circle. Exorcise my tools.” She sighed as she pondered the labors involved in the step known as “the preparation of the operator.” “Can the doctors keep him alive another two weeks?”

  “I fucking well hope so.”

  She hid her face in her hands, unable to believe she was letting herself be dragged back into a world and life she thought she had escaped. Then her conscience nagged: Not escaped—abandoned. She lowered her hands and faced Adair. “The stars permitting, I will join you at dusk in ten days. Two weeks if the planets are unfavorable.”

  A grateful nod. “Ten days, then. I’ll await you at sunset, in the gazebo on the hospital’s pier.” His astral shade vanished. Anja wondered how long it would take her to regret her decision; then she laughed at herself with contempt.

  Who do I hope to deceive? I regret it already.

  53

  Moonlight slashed bright and argent through the windows of Royal Victoria Hospital’s eastern corridor, opposite a row of recovery suites. A breeze perfumed by lavender and roses wended down the passage, which embodied a uniquely British fusion of dignity and simplicity.

  Adair and Anja’s footsteps disturbed the hospital’s late-night quiet as they hurried from one section of its south wing to another. He led the way while she pushed a wheeled hospital cart draped with a sheet. With a scowl of discomfort, Anja tugged at the hem of her borrowed nurse’s uniform. She glowered at him. “Is this disguise really necessary?”

  “We can’t risk drawing attention.” They passed through another set of double doors into a section of single-occupant dormitories. “He’s down here. I pulled a few strings at Allied command, got him a private room, like they give the officers.”

  The cart’s wheels squeaked as Anja sped up to keep pace. “I doubt he cares.”

  “It’s for your benefit, not his. Can’t have witnesses, can we?” He stole a look through an open door as they passed and marveled at the machinery that had been hooked up to the soldier inside. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  His reluctant accomplice seemed oblivious. “What is?”

  “This. The hospital. New drugs, new surgical techniques. Medicine’s come a long way in the last hundred years. Imagine where it’ll be in a hund
red more.”

  The young Russian woman was unimpressed. “It will be where it is now. Lagging behind war and every other way men hurt one another.”

  Adair had no antidote for her cynicism, only the distraction of mission. “In here.” He entered Cade’s room, then stood aside and held open the door while she pushed the cart inside. She parked it at the foot of Cade’s bed as Adair locked the door.

  Once their privacy was assured, Anja tore the peaked white cap from her head and cast it aside. Her black hair tumbled free as she leaned over Cade. She pressed her left palm to his chest and her right to the side of his face. Then she shut her eyes and concentrated. There was nothing for Adair to do but await Anja’s diagnosis.

  She removed her hands from Cade. “There is damage inside him. Bleeding, metal the surgeons missed. But that is not the cause of his coma. His soul still lives, but is not here.”

  “He’s astral-projecting?”

  “I think so. But he must be very far away. The link to his soul is almost gone.”

  It was both better and worse news than Adair had expected. He had hoped that Cade’s mind was present and merely in need of aid regaining awareness. The worst-case scenario would have been to learn Cade’s soul was already expired, his body just an empty vessel, but the lad’s current predicament was nearly as dire.

  Adair didn’t try to hide his fear. “Can you bring him back?”

  “I do not know.” She removed the sheet from the cart at the foot of the bed. In place of its usual freight—clean sheets, bedpans, and the like—they had loaded it with her grimoire, her tools of the Art, and a collection of arcane powders, unguents, and oils. “First I must fix the wounds to his flesh. When that is done, I can try to coax his soul back into his body.”

  “How long, you think?”

  She unfurled her tool roll on the floor. “I will finish by dawn. If I succeed, his soul will return at sunrise. If I fail, and sever the bond between body and soul, he will die.”

  It was a grim prognosis. In the face of it, Adair felt helpless and small. He watched her pull the blankets off of Cade. “Can I help?”

  Anja removed Cade’s pajama shirt. “Spare me from interruption.” She cast the flannel top aside and pulled down Cade’s pajama pants. “Guard the door.”