by Archer, Jill
I didn’t think it was possible to stiffen any further. Ari had to know his words were making me feel worse. This was the story of how he fell in love with me? He’d just scored the hat trick of insults: Reminding me I’d killed something; reminding me I’d done it out of ineptitude; and then telling me I was really soft on the inside . . . That my heart had the strength of a soft-boiled egg.
“Ari,” I said carefully, “I don’t want to be weak.”
He laughed. “You’re the farthest thing from it.”
“No. I mean on the inside.”
He tried to tighten his hold on me, but I pushed back so that I could see his face. In the rising moonlight, there were lots of shadowed spots, portions I couldn’t see. But I could tell he wasn’t smiling.
“You can’t fight my battles for me,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, his face dark and unreadable. Finally, he sighed.
“I know. I know.”
He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as me.
Later, we looked for Captain Delgato and the boat we’d be sailing to the Shallows, but it wasn’t in its slip. So much for satisfying my curiosity. Considering Cattus’ fate, however, maybe it was for the best. Meeting my new teacher could probably wait.
Chapter 5
Some say Evander Joshua was motivated by self-interest; others say he was a perfect Angel. What is known is this:
Joshua was an Angel who lived sometime in the early centuries after the Apocalypse, circa 100-200 AA. His mother had been a Mederi healer (a female descendant of Lucifer’s Host born with waxing, or healing, magic) and his father had been an Angel (a descendant of the once-great but now-defeated Savior’s army). At the time, relations between Host and Angel families were still strained. In spite of, or perhaps due to, his parents’ ostracism and the frosty welcome he himself received from both sides, Joshua reimagined a Halja where Angel and Host lived, loved, learned, and worked side by side. He created the Guardian/Ward relationship and became the first Guardian Angel, serving Magnus Antimony, one of the earliest Council executives.
Was Joshua a romantic idealist or a keen political strategist?
Who knows? What I did know was that I was due to report to the House of Metatron, a grand name for a small, dark ceremonial courtroom over at the Joshua School, at seven Wednesday morning to begin the tedious process of Angel selection—otherwise known as Voir Dire, or “to speak the truth.”
Well, we’d see about the truth part. There was bound to be some embellishment, aggrandizement, and general blowing of horns. The Joshua School was just as competitive as St. Luck’s. Angel students had until they graduated to find a ward or they’d face a lifetime of endless research in the never-ending stacks. Of course, some preferred academia to the field (and, having just been assigned my first field assignment, I wasn’t sure I blamed them), and some became artists or winemakers, but most wanted a ward. Wards meant more money—and more prestige, which Angels loved as much as Mederies loved gardens and Maegesters loved fire (at least most Maegesters did . . . personally, I had a love/hate thing going with fire, but that’s off topic . . .).
Angels. The point is that they are our protectors. Our paid protectors. But they also take an oath to guard their wards and, like everyone else in Halja, the Angels take their oaths very seriously. A good Angel would know how to hide their ward, how to heal them, at least until a Mederi could be found, and how to make them more deadly with all kinds of “booster” spells (lately, many second-semester Maegesters-in-Training—ahem, Brunus!—had been pouring over Angel curricula vitae in the hopes of securing the deadliest partner imaginable). Great Angels also knew all three of the primary demon languages and a handful of other, more obscure ones because an Angel’s other purpose, in addition to being a Guardian, was to serve as interpreter and scribe for the Maegester they worked with.
But, unlike Brunus and the rest, I didn’t want someone who would make me more deadly. I didn’t care about spellcasting ability or linguistic scores. I didn’t care about offensive, or even defensive, ratings. I just wanted to find someone who wouldn’t make me want to jump overboard during our trip to the Shallows. Someone who would blend into the teak woodwork of whatever sailboat we were going to be sailing. Someone who wouldn’t be obnoxious or offer unwanted opinions or ask unwarranted questions. Maybe even someone who would be fine not talking to me at all . . . Because I’d learned the hard way last semester that an Angel could turn on you just when you needed them the most.
* * *
Wednesday morning I woke cranky and irritated. It wasn’t that it was still dark out when I woke (although who in their right mind would make plans before daylight in a country ruled by demons?); it was that it wasn’t dark, at least not in my room. After one hundred eighty-one days of successfully ignoring the nearly all-consuming urge to set my morning alarm bell on fire, I’d finally gone and done it. And in spectacular fashion too. In those few seconds between sleeping and waking, I’d torched the whole thing into a mini mountain of melted copper and bronze that glowed like a night lamp and smoked like a volcano belching toxic fumes. I was so ticked off; I left it there to harden, uncaring of whether I would later be able to remove it from my desktop.
Ivy had left a note:
Noon—
Went to get coffee and biscuits. Meet Fitz and me in Timothy’s Square at dawn to discuss Angel candidates.
Ivy
p.s. Wear something sexy. I heard Holden Pierce is a hottie!
I groaned. I’m surprised they didn’t make an exception to the “Future Maegesters Only” rule for Manipulation for Ivy. She was a master manipulator, even if she didn’t have waning magic. This was her MO, always dropping very unsubtle hints about my need to bare my demon mark. As if the whole world didn’t already know I was the Host’s version of a Hyrke strong girl in a carnie sideshow. Despite Ivy’s postscript, I made sure I wore something that covered my mark, but I amped up the vamp more than I would have otherwise. It wasn’t to attract whoever this Holden Pierce was (I had my own hottie and was more than happy with him); it was to bolster my own confidence with superficial gloss.
Two minutes before sunrise, I left Megiddo and headed for Timothy’s Square, garbed in a shockingly short, gray linen skirt, high platform satin sandals with black ribbon laces, and a hibiscus pink top that was sleeveless but came nearly to my collarbone. In fact, the shirt had a little extra detailing at the top in the form of a thin, slightly ridiculous, summer scarf. I strode over to the bench where Ivy and Fitz—Ivy’s cousin and my other closest friend—sat waiting for me, my attitude a combination of haughty (another coping mechanism I was practicing for later), irritated (still at my melted alarm bell, not at Ivy or Fitz), and (the reason I kept focusing on the first two) worried—Big Time.
“Hey, Noon,” Fitz said, giving me a salacious full-body stare that would have been offensive if it had been given by anyone other than Fitz. He winked and nodded slowly. “Looking good.” Then he grinned and handed me a steaming paper cup and a small white paper bag. I smiled back and sat down.
I opened the bag and inhaled, hoping to replace the lingering toxic smell of metal burned by waning magic with the warm, doughy, sweet scent of breakfast biscuits lightly dusted with powdered sugar. I stuck my nose deep in the bag and breathed as if I were ridding myself of hiccups, but a second later Fitz smacked my arm, clearly impatient for news. Startled, I sucked in a lung full of powdered sugar and came up choking. My scarf came loose and one end of it got tangled up in the top of the bag. Ivy narrowed her eyes, sighed, flipped the end of the scarf over my shoulder, and pounded me on the back.
“What’s up, Noon?” Fitz said, ignoring the hacking attack that he’d caused. “We’ve barely seen you this semester. Ivy and I want the skinny on All Things Dark and Scary.”
Hmm . . . How to answer?
I cleared my throat.
Well, after ditching Jezebeth’s execution, my dad tracked me down at the Black Onion and told me if I ever di
tched again, I’d sleep with the fishes. Then I went to Manipulation class and got the Assignment from Hell, er, Halja, and walked with Ari to the docks, where he confessed to hiding a wife from her lawful husband despite having been ordered to do otherwise. Now I’m heading in to pick out a spellcasting partner. And I have no intention of actually working with them.
Of course, I didn’t say all that. But, in between bites of biscuit, I did mumble something similar to that last line.
“We figured you’d say that,” said Ivy. “That’s why we took the liberty of thumbing through the Angel CVs and selecting the candidates we thought best suited to you.” She took a big swig of her coffee, which was laced with steamed milk, licked the foam off her lip, and gave me a winsome smile.
I grimaced.
“Really, Noon, it’s not that bad. I know you feel like—after what Peter did last semester—no Angel can be trusted, but some of these candidates look pretty good. Great, in fact.”
“Then you work with them,” I said petulantly. I knew I was being childish, but Fitz and Ivy were my best friends. If anyone understood how I felt about Angels (besides Ari), it would be them.
Ivy ignored me. “Let’s start with Holden Pierce,” she said. I looked to Fitz for his reaction, thinking maybe Ivy just wanted to vicariously man shop, but he was all business. He had my bound copy of the Angel CVs open to Pierce’s page and was looking expectantly at me.
“I agree,” he said to Ivy. “Pierce is ranked first. We should discuss him first.”
Ugh. I wiped my hands on a napkin, stuffed it in my bag, crumpled the whole thing up, and neatly tossed it in a nearby trash can. Fine. If Fitz was getting down to business, I would too. And, frankly, I had less than an hour before I was supposed to report to the House of Metatron. In a fit of pique (ahem, sometimes I could be stupidly stubborn), I’d refused to review these CVs earlier. I supposed I should know something about the candidates I was expected to interview.
“What’s his defensive rating?” I said.
“Ninety-eight point four,” Fitz said, handing me the book. I skimmed Pierce’s CV. It was as impressive as any top-ranking Angel candidate’s would have been. Pierce was twenty-five years old; his parents were Bertrand and Samantha; he was in his third year at the Joshua School; he knew Hunnic and Dacian, in addition to Vandalic, Venetic, and Vestinian, the three primary demon languages. His potentia (an Angel’s ability to stay focused and continue casting spells) was listed as “meritorious.” His grades in Post-Apocalyptic History, Linguistics, and Spellcasting were as admirable as mine were in Sin and Sanction, Evil Deeds, and Manipulation. In short, he was an amazing candidate, except . . .
I grunted.
“Yeah,” Fitz laughed. “You see his offensive rating? Is that unbelievable or what?” He grabbed the book back and stared at Pierce’s CV like Pierce was some sort of Hyrke super toy that Fitz couldn’t wait to unwrap at Yule. “And did you see his specialty?” he asked dreamily. “Enforcement.”
“I saw it,” I said dryly, looking at Ivy. “This is the guy you wanted me to dress up for? His ‘noteworthy’ spells are Painfall, Damage Cascade, and Hemorrhage. Really?”
Ivy had the good grace to look chagrined. “Well, he is ranked first . . . And so are you! Why not?” she asked, eyes blazing indignantly.
“Um, maybe because him and Brunus already have ‘Amici Optimi In Aeternum’ tattooed on each of their arms.”
She sighed, frowning, resigned to the inevitable. Fitz sighed, smiling, eyes closed, still unwrapping imaginary toy army Angels. I snatched the book back from him.
“Hey!” he cried, opening his eyes. He refocused on me. “Lambert Jeffries.”
“Ranked second,” Ivy said, flipping to his page. “His academic scores and field ratings are almost as good as Pierce’s. His potentia is listed as ‘commendable.’ And he speaks Aquaian. That might come in handy. Didn’t you say your field assignment was in one of the outposts? Which one?”
“The Shallows.”
“Whoa. That’s . . . Well, it’s . . .” Ivy didn’t often sputter. She didn’t have magic, but she was usually very self-assured.
“So you’ve been there?” I asked, thinking that I remembered Ivy saying once that she’d been to every outpost. “What’s it like?”
“A thin and watery place,” she said softly. “A hungry place.”
She glanced guiltily at her empty biscuit bag. “I was only there once, when I was small, maybe seven or eight years old. I don’t remember much.”
We were all quiet for a moment and I sensed the only other memories Ivy had of the Shallows were bad ones, and not very helpful.
“Who’s your captain?” Ivy said finally, with forced cheer.
“Ferenc Delgato.”
“Odd,” said Ivy, her freckled face screwed up with concentration. “I’ve never heard of him. Maybe he’s new . . . ?”
“He’s an old friend of Rochester’s. He’ll be our captain, as well as our new Manipulation teacher.” I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to go.
Fitz suddenly sat up straighter. “I could go with you,” he blurted out. “Get a job as the mechanic or cook.”
I frowned, thinking the last thing I needed was a defenseless Hyrke that I cared about coming along. At least the river Hyrkes were well versed in the dangers they faced. Ivy just laughed.
“What in all of Luck’s great land do you know about machines . . . or even cooking?” Then she hooted and guffawed and slapped her knee while Fitz glared at her, and then we all got down to business again. But I was touched that Fitz had offered.
“Okay,” I said. “Lambert Jeffries. Number two. Lay it on me.”
“Well,” Ivy said, “like I was saying, he speaks Aquaian, which could come in handy since you’ll be sailing the Lethe.” She paused and glanced at Fitz. “Aquaian is what a lot of water demons speak.”
“I know that!” Fitz awkwardly ran a hand through his hair and turned away. His carrot-topped mane was always in shambles and he’d just made it worse. I sensed this was the wrong time to tell him.
“Fitz, who would you pick for me?”
“Me?” he said, turning back around to face me.
“Yes, you. You and Ivy have obviously spent some time with these CVs. What do you think?”
I was genuinely curious. I knew Ivy would make her preference known regardless of who anyone else thought would be a good choice. But Fitz was likely to go along with her suggestion once it was made and I wanted to know what his choice would be.
“Fara Vanderlin,” he said, after a brief hesitation.
“Fara! You can’t be serious!” Ivy practically jumped up from the bench. She suddenly became very animated, gesturing wildly, almost knocking my coffee cup out of my hands. Luckily, it was empty.
“She’s ranked fourth, Ivy. Luck, it’s not as if she’s not any good.”
“But her voice. It’s like a shrew’s. How can any Angel talk like that? It’s got to affect her performance.”
“Obviously it doesn’t,” he said huffily, as if Ivy had just called his own competency into question.
“Vanderlin, huh?” I said. “What’s her specialty?”
We were sitting on a bench facing south. Behind the Joshua School, the sun was just poking up. Fitz glanced left for a moment at it and I did too. The city’s low skyline looked like a series of black bricks set against pink foil. For a moment, what we saw was simple and beautiful, dark shapes against a cotton candy sky. But I knew as the sun rose higher it would shed its light on all the hollow, unseen spots. The ugly spots that were better off left in the dark. The spots full of dirt and filth, age and disease, and sometimes, even a demon or two.
“She’s a gap filler,” Fitz said quietly, not looking at me.
“What’s a gap filler?” Ivy asked, amazed that Fitz seemed to know something she didn’t.
“An Angel who finds spells that will fill in the gaps of their ward’s experience level,” I said, sensing why Fitz had been reluctant to tell me
his choice. “My father calls them ‘Gum and Pin’ men. Get it? G-A-P?”
Ivy frowned, clearly confused. “What are you talking about? Chewing gum? Hat pins?”
“The term isn’t complimentary. He thinks of them as jacks-of-all-trades, masters-of-none. Why do you think she’d be good for me, Fitz?”
“Because she can cast Clean Conscience.”
Ivy just pursed her lips together. I did too. I’d never heard of the spell Clean Conscience, but its name said it all. I guessed if I were teamed with Fara, executing Jezebeth would have been a slam dunk. Kill first, ask for magical moral whitewash later.
I stood up and reached my hand out toward Fitz, motioning impatiently. I needed my book of CVs back and I needed to get on over to the House of Metatron now. Fitz stared at me for a moment and I had the oddest thought: when he was serious, Fitz actually looked handsome—in a rough, uneven sort of way. He placed the book in my hand and stood up too. I said my good-byes and started walking toward the Joshua School, feeling as if I were carrying a backpack full of five hornbooks, instead of just a slim bound copy of a dozen CVs or so.
Fitz caught up to me just as I was getting ready to cross Angel Street. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned toward him.
“We care about you, that’s all,” he said. “You’re a good person, Noon, and we don’t want anything to happen to you.”
I thought how funny we must look together. Me, in high satin sandals and a full face of makeup, and him in ripped cargo pants and a shirt upon which he’d hand painted the words, “Roccaturi te salutant!” We who are about to rock salute you! It was a phrase our Council Procedure professor, Darius Dorio, was overly fond of.
“If I’m such a good person,” I said, “then I don’t need an Angel who carries guilt erasers in her pencil pack.”
The light changed and I tapped my finger against the letters on Fitz’s chest. I gave him a mock salute and raced across Angel Street and toward the Joshua School.