by Debra Dunbar
Two angels dead. Three if he counted the rogue Gregori, his brother, had killed nearly a year ago. It was unheard of. Such casualties had not occurred since the wars. Gabriel still fumed over the death of Althean, a lost soul never given the opportunity for redemption, snuffed out in a fit of rage—justified, but still such temper should have been contained and controlled. Anger was a sin, and angels in their position did not have the luxury of sin—especially not when Aaru simmered with discontent.
Two angels. Gabriel couldn’t escape the questions that churned through him. The reports were unacceptably vague, his brother clearly in some bizarre fugue. There were processes, procedures for everything, and the fact that these angels were among the humans without permission disturbed him nearly as much as their deaths. A physical body led to temptation, and humans bore a faint resemblance to those the angels had banished. Two and a half million years was a long time to be alone, and lesser angels could not be expected to resist the seduction of being in the presence of humans.
Were they there seeking the comfort of a warm embrace? Did the urge to create send them to the only outlet available? Or were they, perhaps, formulating rebellion safe from the listening ears of Aaru?
Gabriel
He stiffened in displeasure. The angel addressing him was not a sibling, and even with the addition of the “el” suffix, it was a far too familiar form of address.
Guardian of Truth, Ancient Messenger.
Better. He hardly expected the angel to recite all fifty of his names and titles. Fellow members of the Ruling Council were allowed some latitude, after all.
Sidriel. Gabriel purposely left off all but the basic title, emphasizing the vast chasm of age and level between them.
There was a brief hesitation as the other angel recognized the slight. Revered one, you wished to see me?
Now was as good a time as any. It’s not like he would be able to find his center until he got the answers he desired.
The two recently deceased angels—what choirs were they from? It hadn’t been in the reports, but Gabriel knew if the word was out, Sidriel would have heard. It was best to see if the rumors were true before he wasted time and energy interrogating those with no knowledge of the dead.
The one who left behind a corporeal form, Vaol, belonged to the second choir. The one who died in the explosion, Furlac, was in the third.
Raphael and Uriel’s then. Gabriel wondered briefly whether his siblings were aware of their staffs’ transgressions. There were sub-levels in each choir, and it was impossible to keep track of the day-to-day activities of every angel. Suspicion gnawed at the angel as he mentally ran through the various levels in each of his sibling’s choirs. Were his relations covering up embarrassing indiscretions, or perhaps behind a take-over attempt? It wouldn’t be the first time they’d all jockeyed for position, and he doubted it would be the last. No matter how many coup attempts they’d orchestrated over the ages, none had ever succeeded. The eldest was always immovable, the most powerful of them all. But now… something had changed, and Gabriel got the feeling his brother might have compromised his normally high vibration levels. If he fell, then Aaru would be in a prime state for rebellion.
The second choir has professed ignorance of Vaol’s motives for leaving Aaru and flouting the proper procedures, Sidriel continued. Uriel, the revered interpreter of prophecies, states that Furlac was among the humans delivering a message on her behalf.
Gabriel felt a wave of irritation roll through him. Raphael was always lax in controlling his angels. He’d been pronounced an Angel of Order upon his creation, but Gabriel had always wondered if there had perhaps been some mistake. Although, as the fourth of five siblings, Raphael had been greatly influenced by his chaotic little brother during his formative years. Either way, he was disgracefully far from center. At least Uriel had owned up to her angel’s behavior. Had she circumvented the process to expedite the delivery of her message, or had there been a less innocuous reason she hadn’t wanted Furlac’s visit documented?
They were both probably there to sin with the humans. Sidriel’s tone was gleeful, and Gabriel felt his stomach churn at the eagerness with which the other angel’s thoughts turned to improper physical relations.
Do you call Uriel a liar? Gabriel often did, but one of Sidreil’s station did not have that right. Ruling Council appointments tended to inflate an angel’s head. This one clearly needed to be removed from office, and soon. Gabriel’s mind wandered as the other angel sputtered apologies and backpedaled. He wouldn’t put it past Uriel to lie. She’d been increasingly sympathetic toward those who sought solace in the arms of the humans. Raphael too.
Nephilim. It wasn’t just the sin of physical congress with the humans; it was the creation of offspring with them. Angels lowered their vibration levels with the transgression, but it was humans who truly suffered. A being of spirit, no matter how willing, could never give a human what they truly wanted in a partner, and any children would be different, forced to hide for their long lives, or be killed by the humans that feared them. It was a disaster, a mistake that destroyed human lives.
Reports were vague on the cause of death for these two angels, and choirs were vague on why they were out of Aaru without following proper protocol. What was going on? There was a sickness festering in Aaru that threatened the very structure that sustained them all. With his brother quite possibly fallen, a revolution seemed on the horizon with bloodshed that hadn’t been seen since the war. He couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t allow it. There had been too much chaos in this past year, and it needed to stop.
All it would lead to was pain, and order was the only thing that made the pain go away.
If the rumors are true, then these sinful visits with the humans will come to an end.
Gabriel’s attention turned back to the other angel. What rumors? Hope flared. Anything that would stem the increasing tide of sin would be welcome. Maybe then they could all get back to normal.
That there is a way to create offspring without violation of the treaty or threat to our spiritual balance.
Gabriel caught his breath. Impossible. Any such miracle would have been brought before the Ruling Council.
Sidriel shifted uncomfortably. I only know the rumors. Perhaps the procedure has not yet been vetted, or there are protocols that must be considered before it is brought to our attention. I don’t know.
Creation. Without unholy contact. Aaru had suffered since the war, evolution had slowed to a crawl, and angels were increasingly rebellious. The terms of the treaty had seemed livable in the bloody aftermath of battle, but with time, the restrictions were like over-tight ropes, chafing sensitive flesh.
We have all suffered with the lack of creation. It would help those who cannot resist the lure of the humans.
And anything that decreased, or even stopped the number of angels who fell, the number of Nephilim born, would be a good thing.
I’m surprised they haven’t contacted you to feel out support in the Ruling Council for their cause. I heard that they reached out to Uriel.
It would make sense that they would contact Uriel first. Of all the Ruling Council, she would be the one most eager to support a project that would bring creation once again to Aaru. Memories flooded him. So many had lost lovers and children in the war, but Uriel had lost both. Angels didn’t often life-bond. Uriel had. To lose two beings she adored due to war, to wonder if they lived on in Hel or perished—no angel should ever have to suffer so.
It would be a good thing, Gabriel mused, half to himself. I would support it as long as the method did not violate the treaty or threaten our positive evolution.
Sidriel paused, as if considering the older angel’s words. I’m not sure how I would weigh in on the issue. If it could be done without compromising my vibration levels, then I might be interested. Of course, I would allow myself to be guided by your august opinion.
If Gabriel had not been incorporeal, he would have shaken his head. Sidriel’s obsequiou
s behavior had reached an annoying level the past few centuries. It was beneficial to have allies, and it certainly was flattering to have an angel hang on his every word, as this one did, but Gabriel had the distinct impression that Sidriel was just waiting for the right opportunity to stick a knife in his back.
I’ve always regretted not being able to pass along the quality of my being to another, but better remain childless than choose an improper mate in haste.
He felt Sidriel’s excitement. If the rumors are true, you’ll be able to pick exactly the qualities you want, and not worry about alliances made in the heat of emotion bringing you shame. Creation without the need to involve lesser beings—it would truly be a miracle.
Wrong. Something about it just seemed wrong. But curiosity grabbed hold of the elder angel and sparked his interest. Better check it out. He was going to need to investigate these two angel deaths before he could rest, so he might as well look into this intriguing rumor.
Yes. A very welcome miracle.
5
I heard the dungeon door clang and felt a familiar sense of dread. Once they’d realized I was a demon, a guard had returned to toss a net over me—a good precaution under normal circumstances, totally unnecessary in this instance. It’s not like I could do anything. No melting of prison bars, no ripping my captor’s head off and shoving it up their ass. I was pond scum at the time, mostly because in that form my stomach didn’t feel painfully empty. There were only so many flies and bugs down here, and I’d managed to eat every one that came within reach.
So I was trapped under the magical restraint as green slime. The worst thing about the net was it kept me from trying to convert. Parts of me were knitting back together, and I worried that without the constant trying, important things would scar over and be lost to me forever—sort of like having knee replacement surgery and being immobilized as it healed. I tried to ooze around the floor, to somehow crawl out from under the net. No such luck. Whatever magic it held attached the thing to me no matter how hard I tried. It also anchored itself to the floor, limiting my oozing range to only a few feet.
It was a waiting game. Eventually Feille would come, and he wouldn’t be satisfied beating plant life under a magical restraint for long. Eventually he’d have it removed, and then I’d do whatever it took to get the fuck out of here. I was desperate, and I knew my life was on the line.
Three pairs of booted feet came within my view, following the most ridiculous, jewel-encrusted slippers I’d ever seen. All hail Lord Feille, asshole of Wythyn.
“Arrrgh! That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Are you sure it’s her? Why does she smell like that? Why is she in that revolting form?”
I couldn’t see above his knees, but I imagined Feille foppishly holding a scented handkerchief to his nose and waving a hand in my general direction. Probably not, although he was a bit overdressed for the occasion with his bejeweled slippers.
“My Lord, we believe she chose this form to escape notice. Once again, she was trespassing on our lands. The scouts found her but nearly put her back after two months in the cell, assuming she was some rare form of pond scum. If one of them hadn’t insisted on summoning your sorcerer, she would have escaped.”
I imagined Feille’s eyes narrowing, still holding the handkerchief to guard against my supposedly foul odor. It was probably a gold embroidered handkerchief, scented with an elven perfume—Eau de Midsummer, or some other weird, esoteric scent.
“Where is her horse?” Feille demanded. I could hear the greed in his voice. I knew he wanted my half-demon horse with his teleportation skills. Feille had been pissed beyond belief when I’d demanded Diablo back with the barrel of a shotgun pointed at his elven head.
“She had no horse with her this time, My Lord. I’m not sure the reason for her trespass, or why she chose to do it on foot. Or, rather, not on foot.”
“Why is she still like that? You said she knew she was discovered, that she turned into some kind of reptile and attacked you. Why hasn’t she changed? The charade is over and there is no sense in trying to pass herself off as a member of the plant kingdom any longer.”
There was an awkward moment of silence as I watched three pairs of boots shift nervously on the floor.
“Well, My Lord, she is under a net. She is unable to change her form until it is removed.” The guard’s tone was respectful, but I clearly heard the “duh” underneath his groveling tone. I held my breath as the air crackled with tension. Some elven guard evidently had a death wish. Luckily for him, Feille let the slight go.
“Well, get it off of her. Now! Move it.”
There was another awkward silence. “My Lord… are you sure? She’s fast. And you remember last time.”
I felt the air thicken, as if we were underwater. Elves had impressive control over their natural environment, and Feille clearly liked to use his skills to remind everyone who wore the crown. “Did I ask for your counsel? No? Then do as I tell you or I’ll feed you to her one limb at a time.”
I heard a scurry of booted feet and a raspy noise of a key in a lock. I saw the cell door swing to the left, and one pair of boots hesitantly approached. I felt the net lift slightly and saw the boots dash back across the threshold of my cell. This happened three fucking times until the asshole had the balls enough to completely remove the net before racing to safety.
Silence. I would rather Feille think I was thumbing my nose at him than give him the satisfaction of seeing how broken I really was, seeing as how I could only manage one other form—and a rather harmless one at that. Any additional conversion skills that might have returned to me would need to wait until I was alone and could experiment with some privacy. Failure was best experienced without witnesses.
“Why is she still like that?” Feille asked.
Again the shuffling of boots. “I don’t know, My Lord.”
There was a collective gasp as the fancy slippers approached me.
“Change. Az, you foul-mouthed goat spawn, change!”
I didn’t oblige.
A metal tipped stick was raised then brought down upon me, sinking through my gelatinous form to ring on impact with the floor. Again and again it rose and fell, spraying greenish brown bits of me all over the cell walls and ceiling. It didn’t hurt, didn’t damage me in the slightest. I was rather amused watching Feille’s exertions and his growing frustration with his inability to cause me any pain or suffering whatsoever.
The elf lord screamed and threw the staff behind him, narrowly missing the guards who dodged out of its way. “Get a torch. Someone get me a torch.”
Another scurry of feet and a mumbled question, then booted feet carefully approached the slippered ones. I saw a flash of light, felt heat as a torch descended to touch my form. Nothing. Curious as to what abilities I’d recovered, I tried to convert energy to water at the edge of the torch and was thrilled to see the flame sputter and die in a rising, thin line of gray smoke.
“I saw that, Az! Don’t you think I didn’t see that. You change into a human form right now and I’ll be merciful. Change and I’ll let you live.”
Right. The angels might be blind to the perfidy of elves, but I wasn’t. Those fuckers lied like there was no tomorrow. Feille wouldn’t kill me right away, that wouldn’t be fun at all, but I was pretty sure at the end of all the creative torture he wanted me stuffed and mounted on the wall over his fireplace.
“Change. Change, change, change!” he screamed, kicking at me with his fancy slippers. I didn’t change, but I did ensure I caked his footwear with enough ooze to cover the pretty jewels. He’d never get the stink out of those things.
He flung his feet around in an amazing impersonation of Riverdance, screaming at his guards the whole time. I felt a bit sorry for them. It wasn’t their fault he was trying to beat the crap out of pond scum and failing miserably.
“Get my sorcerers! Where are my sorcerers?”
I heard a cough, which sounded suspiciously like it was covering up a laugh.
“My Lord, your one sorcerer is at the capital, working on the project you told him was of the utmost importance.”
Oooh, I was fairly certain a guard’s head was going to be the next thing flying across the room. Feille casually walked past them all and picked up his staff. Tension filled the room, and the insubordinate guard blanched. His buddies backed away from him as if he had the plague.
“I’m not sure I like your tone.”
“I’m sorry, My Lord. I’m sorry,” the guard stammered.
It was the last thing he said. Without a word, light streamed from Feille into his staff, and with a blur of speed he rammed it into the guard’s throat. It was a quick death. The elf’s head exploded into a spray of sand, and his body fell to the floor. Feille carefully wiped the end of his staff on the dead elf’s tunic while the others tried not to stare.
“Does anyone else have anything they’d like to say in regards to the number of sorcerers I now have in the kingdom?”
You could have heard crickets chirping in the silence. If I hadn’t eaten them all, that is.
“Have my sorcerer come here immediately,” Feille said after a significant pause. I had a bad feeling what this project was and why he didn’t want to disturb it, but with one remaining sorcerer, he didn’t have much choice. “I’ll wait for his arrival.”
The fancy slippers left. The cell door clanged, and all the footwear disappeared out of my view. Would they remember to put the net back on me? I hoped not. I held my breath until I heard the rusty scrape of the dungeon door closing then let it out. Wait, I had lungs? Carefully, I took another gulp of oxygen and moved myself across the small cell, this time on longer limbs. I felt a weight on my back and the brush of small, membrane-like wings against the ground. Three sets of eyes on long-snouted heads surveyed my surroundings. I nearly wept. This was very close to my first form and physically strong enough to mount a serious attack. I wasn’t sure exactly what Feille had in mind, but at least I could make an attempt at defending myself. Converting my physical form had always been a conscious action before, but I was happy to take what I could get.