Good Angel

by A. M. Blaushild

  Without looking up from her poem, Damien reached up, briefly holding Santiago’s hand before pushing her away. “We need groceries anyways. You can go pick them up while I do this— it’s not like I’m going to shred whatever the angel writes.”

  “Golly, we out of pizza rolls? You insatiable beast.” Santiago rolled her eyes, but leaned over and kissed Damien goodbye. “Love you.”

  Damien kept her attention steadfast, but as Santiago left the room with a zealously blown kiss, she looked up, rolled her eyes, and said a “love you too” back.

  Iofiel had started a poem, but she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to know if it was good. She barely understood what a poem looked like. Words that sounded nice together, and a lot of space between them. She almost had a hazy image in her head, even if she’d never seen one before, and furrowed her brow as she tried to come up with something.

  “Hey glass-kid, you actually crying?” Damien tossed a wad of paper at Archie, who ignored it.

  “Archie?” Iofiel said, and he looked up.

  “No,” He sounded like he could’ve, but his cheeks were dry. “I’m just tired. Been busy.”

  “Are you okay?” Iofiel asked.

  “Been busy, been tired.” He looked away. “We should... hang out sometime again though.”

  “Yeah sure. After Michaelmas though.”

  “Oh, that’s coming up, right.” Something about it clearly didn’t sit well with him, but Iofiel couldn’t fathom why beyond the whole ‘he’s from Hell’ thing.

  Damien had finished her poem, and was trying to peek at Iofiel’s. She hid it with her hand, though in truth she was done too— just trying to figure out how to edit. Did she need to edit? Surely she did?

  “What do you have?” Damien finally asked. Her previous anger seemed to have been fake, or else she had shifted emotions with fantastic speed. Knowing Damien, she’d only been pretending to be rude.

  “Can you go first?”

  “Well, mine’s rough, and you know, I usually spend a lot of time just, thinking it over? Trying to get it down and set. It’s called ‘Jenny Haniver’, which is like—” She didn’t finish the thought.

  I used to eat rocks

  teeth black from the core

  so carve rubies into my skin

  so chew on my bones—

  so call me my own

  and you tower lying down,

  yellow.

  I smell you

  like a hotel alley

  I know your eyes

  in the garage

  ugly grave

  10 years later:

  you are out there

  in the sunset

  still yellow.

  alone for now

  “I don’t think I understand,” Iofiel said.

  “But you’re thinking about it! That’s what art is for.” Damien grinned, obviously very proud of her work.

  “I get it,” Archie said. “Possibly.”

  “I don’t know if an imp can really ‘get’ art either.” For all the animosity Damien had for imps, she had always been surprisingly courteously towards Archie, so much so her comment surprised Iofiel.

  “Well, I did say ‘possibly’.” Archie rolled his eye at Damien’s remark.

  Damein turned to Iofiel. “So what about yours?”

  “Uh. I did two. I think.”

  Iofiel’s poem

  Blood of the blessed.

  Martyr of storms.

  Killer of angels.

  Ender of wars.

  The bones of the innocent.

  The teeth of the Fallen.

  Gather and burn them.

  Gather and burn them.

  “That’s the first one.”

  “Wow!” Damien exclaimed. “I’m kinda concerned. And you do know you don’t have to put a period at the end of every line, right?”

  “I was trying to make it rhyme.” She hadn’t really been aware about the period thing, and as discreetly as she could, erased them from her second poem entirely.

  “Nothing even remotely rhymes,” Damien pointed out.

  “I did say I was trying.”

  “Is this an angel thing?” Archie asked. “I mean, no offense, but it sounds kinda... prophetic. Like damn, maybe we do need someone out there burning the teeth of the dead.”

  “No, I meant fallen like Fallen angels.”

  “Good luck getting their teeth, but I still feel the urge to do it now. What is a ‘storm martyr’ exactly?”

  “Are you making fun of me?” Iofiel asked, just in case. His face was serious, and he still sounded like he’d witnessed animal death a few minutes prior, but you could never be sure.

  “I’m just doubling down on Damien’s concern for you.”

  “It’s just a poem!”

  “Well,” Damien said, “What’s your second one like?”

  Iofiel swallowed.

  Iofiel’s second poem

  Cuts the sky with earthly daggers

  Tips toppling tired towards the Earth

  Bleeding knives

  Carving Blood

  Swords and silver

  Saint killer!

  Laughter!

  Damien laughed. “Oh boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “Why is this one so centered around sharp weapons.”

  “You told me to write what I’m thinking about, and I guess this morning that’s it. Blood and the end of days.”

  “These aren’t bad poems, but they’re a little... funny. I can tell you wrote them, I mean. They remind me of you.”

  “Thanks?”

  Iofiel had read the poem aloud, but Archie pulled her notebook away, rereading what she had down for himself.

  “What do you mean by ‘Saint killer, Laughter’? That seems a bit weird.” Archie was squinting with concentration. “The exclamation marks kinda fill me dread for some reason.”

  “What do I mean with any of it?” Iofiel sighed. “Art is weird. I just threw down whatever came to me, and that primarily turned out to be violent thoughts and the words that rhymed with them.”

  “Again, I’m not positive you understand what ‘rhyming’ means.” Damien took a deep breath, “Anyway, cheer up.”

  “Huh?”

  She appeared displeased to be delivering this message. “I need you two to stop moping about. Santi’s worried about you two, and I am... too.” She put her hands on her hips, and pointed in turn: “Papernose, you’ve been acting miserable for a while now, and I don’t know why, but I bet it’s for a pointless reason. Io, I don’t know what’s going on in your life at any given time, but you have more important things to worry about than that roommate of yours.”

  “Like the apocalypse?” Iofiel knew Damien was trying to preserve her ‘tough girl’ image, but still felt a bit ticked.

  “No, like passing your classes. We don’t know if it’s really the end or not— only that a couple rivers are red. Getting worked up into a wild huff over shitty weather is some early-humanity level idiocy. We are the agents of the end— when the apocalypse kicks off, I’m pretty sure we’re going to be informed about it.”

  “I guess—” Iofiel started.

  “I’m right,” Damien interrupted. “Trust me on this. And cheer up a little?”

  “Your poem wasn’t exactly happy.” Archie pointed out.

  “Yeah, but it’s not about me now. That’s the great thing about art.” Damien pointed threateningly to Iofiel. “It can be about you now, or you in the past, or you in some other universe. It can be about your future, or someone else’s future, or the life of someone with the same looks as you but who cries less. And even the ones about mothmen in Switzerland are still about you, in the end, ‘cause you made it...” Damien’s tangent faded off, and she spent a second glaring at the table. Then she banged it with her fist. “Art is fucking great.”

  There was a slow clap from the door, where Santiago was leaning, grocery bag in hand. “I like to imagine the last fifteen minutes have consisted entirely of you
making that rant, and I was merely lucky enough to arrive for the finale. How are you kids doing?”

  “Cheered up,” Archie said flatly.

  “Lovely! I know I’m only ‘the demon who abducted us into a world of learning’ to you, but I am legit a bit worried. You’ve both been acting funny since that guy smacked Archie.”

  “To be fair, you have known us longer post that incident than you had before,” Archie pointed out. “Maybe I’m always brooding.”

  “We all know you’re full of pent up rage,” Damien said, “Dude, you’re like five foot three. You’re just also acting like one of us stabbed you in the back a bit ago and left the knife in.”

  “I’m fine,” Archie said, visibly not fine.

  Iofiel took the pause and jumped in. “The only reason I’ve been out of it is, because, y’know... Even though Archangel Michael said it was okay for me to keep doing what I’m doing, it just feels weird. Angels don’t like me, demons can’t stand me, and I’m generally confused on what to feel about myself. And with this end of days stuff kicking up, I can’t help but feel it’s... my fault somehow.”

  “Spoilers: it’s not,” Santiago said. “Kid, sleep well tonight, and learn to stop overthinking. Both of you, really.”

  “So why’d Michael let you keep doing this?” Archie asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  “Huh?”

  “Angels aren’t exactly known for shaking things up and tolerating deviants. What’d he tell you?”

  “Just...” Iofiel gave a one shoulder shrug, “I promised I wasn’t going to betray Heaven, and that I’d be on his side. It’s not like I’m a threat, or even qualified to be a soldier, so it’s not a big deal.”

  “So you’re pledged to him.” Archie had his head held up by one hand, his fingers smushing his cheek up. His pale red eye was odd, a little wider than usual.

  “Yeah. Of course. You guys are my friends, and if the apocalypse comes it’ll be a major bummer, but I’m an angel. I’m going to be following other angels and doing what has to be done.”

  “I know.” Archie leaned back in his chair. “Man, our time’s almost up for the day, and we haven’t done any work. Can we at least try to study?”

  Santiago clapped loudly, just once. “Back to his old self already!”

  With a new sense of ease, Archie cast a small little spell of light that Iofiel had never seen before. Idly, he let it— a golden worm of light— weave throughout his fingers. His eye, meanwhile, was on her. And something about it felt very unsettling indeed.

  15: Daises

  THEN TOMORROW CAME, and the angels didn’t eat breakfast.

  Maalik went to wake Iofiel up at seven-thirty, but she’d been awake since six, too nervous to think. Michaelmas was a good holiday, their only one. Nothing was going to happen, really, she knew.

  Shamsiel and another angel were waiting outside their door. The air was still tense in the angelic dorms, though friends chatted and joked, Iofiel felt hyperaware of every detail. The sound of someone’s high, airy laugh was cut short by someone loudly discussing an earthquake in San Francisco. Someone else jumped in, talking about an unexpected meteor showers.

  Maalik cautiously pushed a few strands of Iofiel’s hair back behind her shoulder. It would be inappropriate to say anything, but she understood.

  It took about ten minutes for every angel on campus to amass in the field west of the Uni, where Amariah was waiting. She always had a certain way of flying, flapping and desperate like a too-heavy butterfly, but at the moment she was floating. Her feathers, weightless, balled around her even more, making her look like a golden pom-pom.

  Underneath her was a broad, golden circle. On closer inspection, it seemed to consist of five lines about an inch thick through the grass and dirt, but there was a definite glow too. Adramelek watched from the sidelines, his black wings folded tightly behind him. One of his hands was holding onto something magical, but Iofiel couldn’t recognize what he was doing. Holding the spell, most likely. His eyes were downturned, deliberately avoiding the gaze of the students.

  She’d arrived on Earth roughly the same way— presumably there was a spell that you could learn that made the trip easy, but a temporary portal between planes wasn’t impossible for higher angels to create either. Powerful angels like Michael, meanwhile, could snap their fingers and be where they needed to be.

  Her first week of existence had been a smattering of a distinct lack of time and serenity. Looking back, she wondered if all angels were given a week of life before performing their purpose. It’d be symbolic, she supposed. Themed.

  Ambriel had pushed her to study, the other Ophans sweetly shrieking along encouragements, their ringed bodies slipping through the practiced shapes of divine knots. Ambriel— rounder and more disc like than their fellows, had carried her to the portal themself, their minuscule claws gently gripping her clothes and skin, fluttering around her but knowing they could never come.

  Now, she returned in Heaven like a blink. She was standing on a stone altar, with a rainbow of bright colors twirling from the centerpiece. A half wall ran around the perimeter, made of floating panels of glass. The sun, eternally present, caught them from every angle, bathing everyone in a colorful glow.

  They arrived in groups of about twenty, with pauses as each group left the pedestal. The aromatic air hit Iofiel even before she took a breath, air thick with humidity, pollen, and the smells of dozens of flowers. It’d be overwhelming to a human, but she was born here. They all had been, and collectively, they inhaled.

  For the occasion, everyone was dressed in angelic clothing. A couple older angels wore human clothes that nearly blended, instead, and Iofiel wondered if they had simply lost theirs or else were trying to look cool. Maalik, who was for once wearing a full robe, was among several who made sure to scowl at them.

  Two guards were waiting off the plateaued portal, both clad in armor and skirts, both looking regal and ancient. They could’ve been her age though, Iofiel realized. Could’ve been younger. Both seemed to know what they were doing, though, proud to hold their spears and stand with outstretched wings. Maybe college had been a bad choice. If she’d stayed and been a domestic soldier, her life would have made a lot more sense.

  Heaven was hot, but not in any particular way. Besides, she was used to it, even after three weeks in the autumn of Earth. Once the whole group was through, Amariah arrived. She immediately flew off, over the tops of the trees and towards Eden.

  Iofiel was about to ask what they should do when most of the angels began walking, already knowing this ritual. Maalik left her with a tap on the wrist, heading off to join Tzaphkiel and the other Archangels from the Uni. A few steps and they were airborne, following the angels for a few moments before taking off towards Eden.

  No one else was flying, so Iofiel figured the lower angels were to keep to the ground. Part of her was miffed by this— Heaven was lush from every angle, but beautiful from above, the rivers and jungles weaved together like stitch work, every bit of nature coexisting in ways that would be impossible on Earth.

  The trees in Heaven were gigantic, looming, ancient— towering palms with fern fronds, lending shade to redwoods. Oaks and pines grew underneath this too, healthy and magnificent. Nothing died in Eden. Few were born.

  Most of the higher orders of angels were flying overhead, mostly in small flocks. A large Principality, presumably one who watched for a city, glided blimp-like, translucent tendrils streaming after them. A Seraph, noisily, dodged through the trees by their side for a while, the eternally panicked eyes on their wings glancing each of them over. All the while, they chanted their archaic song.

  There were a lot of angels in Heaven, but they had arrived on the outskirts— the further they walked, the more souls they saw. They were drifters now more than alive, ghostly imprints of localized mist. Looking at them, Iofiel was filled with a sense of goodness, an urge of loyalty towards them. There were hundreds of millions, some old and colored, like they’d begun to
blend into the summer-like air. Others were a stark grey, cycling between nothingness and humanity with the gentle breeze of the wind.

  Heaven was supposed to be an afterlife of sorts, but Iofiel was unable— not unwilling— to understand exactly what they experienced here. Good things, she knew. The forest was laced with magic so powerful she didn’t sense it as small lines and a gentle tug, more like a heartbeat, more like blood flow.

  They crossed through temperate tundra and over sturdy sand dunes in relative silence. Heaven was not quiet, but rather filled with song. And though not as plentiful as in the deeps of Eden, every sort of animal could be found, domestic and curious as to who they were. A crow circled a few times, cawing at them as they crossed a field consisting of hundreds of grasses. A Power cawed mockingly back, diverting his path around the beast.

  Eventually they crested a hill. Heaven was ring shaped, roughly, sort of like a broken funnel; a slow dip towards the center, but with a startling tower in the middle. From their vantage point, the angels were now looking upon a sea of souls, a slightly more industrial place where mishes of eras and times mashed with cultures and civilizations. All of it was laced in fog and illusion, the souls drifting throughout perhaps witnessing some vast city. Here, finally, the common angels took flight rather than disturb their charges.

  This was why they had the University: Heaven was full. There were still the outer limits, still a few peaks where angels spawned in peace, but humanity was an old race. There were too many souls for angels to stay too long in their birthplace, and for today Iofiel had the sense that the population had been corralled to make room.

  They flew low, though, underwing of a host of Virtues. Iofiel had never seen a Virtue fly before, as they tended to keep to one place, busied with things beyond a lower angel’s understanding. They were slender, silky, half translucent beings. The other angels avoided their path.

  Eden had a great wall around it, on which history was depicted; the creation, the cosmos, the planning of the first humans. Even the Morningstar had earned a place, he and his followers depicted as furious dark smudges on the smooth white stone. At the gates, two Cherubim monitored everyone’s entry. You could fly over the two hundred-foot wall, but it seemed traditional to squeeze through the gates if you were human-sized like Iofiel.