by Joy Nash
Tucking a scroll under his arm, Scarlet strode through the scaffolding that separated the towers, the peak of his hat brushing a cross timber as he passed beneath. The cathedral nave extended before him, as yet unroofed. The perimeter walls and the bases of the columns were not yet risen to shoulder height. But to Scarlet’s eye, the graceful proportions of the design and the magical properties of the space were already evident. There was but one element to complete it.
Dusty lime misted the air and clung to the embroidered hem of his robe, but Scarlet took no notice. The mason directing the day’s work hurried up. Upon a plank supported by two large blocks, the man unrolled the scroll Scarlet proffered. He had inked his masterpiece—the sacred labyrinth, a maze of tiles—in dark lines upon the parchment.
“You will re-create this pattern,” Scarlet told the mason, “exactly as I have drawn it—in stone, here in the nave. I will show you the exact location for the pattern center.”
The mason, his grizzled head bent, studied the plan. “One path, then, sir? Beginning at the outer edge, twisting into the center, then out again?”
“That is correct.” Scarlet slipped a finger into the silken purse belted at his waist where he’d secured the bloodstone. It was warm to his touch.
The mason traced the drawn line with his finger. Back and forth, winding and twisting. “Ah,” he said. “I understand.”
Scarlet very much doubted that he did. But the mason’s understanding, or lack of it, was immaterial. A man did not need to understand his destiny in order to fulfill it.
Maddie pulled her mind from Scarlet’s memory, awash in a combination of sadness and triumph. The master builder of Chartres Cathedral had not succeeded in his quest. He had died, as had each of his descendants in turn. But not because his vision had been in error. It had not. His cathedral did indeed re-create the magical framework of Lilith’s amulet. It was the fragment of bloodstone he’d possessed that had been inadequate. The damaged stone had not been able to bring the spark of life to Scarlet’s creation.
But now . . .
Anticipation kindling within, Maddie flew steadily north.
The Lord said to Raphael: Bind Azazel hand and foot; cast him into darkness. All shall be afraid, and the Watchers be terrified. Great fear and trembling shall seize them. The earth shall be immersed in a deluge, and they shall be destroyed.
Destroy the children of fornication, the offspring of the Watchers. Incite them one against the other; let them perish by mutual slaughter. Upon the death of the Nephilim, wheresoever their spirits depart from their bodies, let their flesh be without judgment.
Thus shall they perish.
—from the Book of Enoch
Chapter Twenty-one
Two spires flanked the cathedral doors: one soaring toward Heaven, the other shorter, constrained by the earth. No light passed through the great window positioned between them. The masterpiece of stone and glass floated like a delicate black flower in the night.
Scant hours before heavy pewter clouds would yield to dawn, the city lay heavy and still. The church square was deserted. Compelled by the fist in his hair and the press of knees on his flanks, Cade dove earthward. He landed on all fours before the cathedral’s main door. His wounded shoulder protested the hours of flight. It felt as though someone were sawing through bone with a hot, jagged knife. Cade gritted his teeth against the pain. He’d be damned if he let his agony show.
Azazel dismounted. Relieved of his loathsome burden, Cade started to straighten, only to bow down again when Azazel pressed a hand to the back of his skull. Ben-Meir’s dead skin oozed the scent of rotting fruit. The stolen body quivered with anticipation. Of what, Cade couldn’t begin to guess.
Maddie, landing gently at her ancestor’s side, turned toward him. But Azazel did not take his eyes from the cathedral doors.
“Chartres,” the Watcher whispered.
The name meant nothing to Cade. At the corner of his vision, he saw Maddie’s wings fold gracefully over her back. Her Nephilim form morphed into a human outline; her peasant skirt swayed about her slender legs, coming to rest with a sigh. Her command touched Cade’s mind. His body obeyed. He shed his own demon form.
Azazel stretched out Simon Ben-Meir’s dead hand. Maddie took it without hesitation.
“Journey’s end, Daughter. And a new beginning.”
Their communion turned Cade’s stomach. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides. Was this small defiance the only protest he was capable of? He tried to produce more.
He’s using you, he told Maddie silently. Can’t you see that?
Maddie’s gaze darted to Cade and hardened. Pain exploded in his head; burning agony seared his lungs. Gasping, he bent double. But the punishment was well worth the knowledge he’d gained. His psychic connection with Maddie held. She’d heard him in her mind. If he could only get her to listen to him, perhaps he would not be completely powerless.
Azazel strode to the cathedral doors. Rows of somber saints stared down at him, but none of the stone figures moved to smite him, fallen angel and trespasser that he was.
The doors were, of course, locked at this hour. It proved no great impediment. At Azazel’s nod, Maddie placed her palm on the ancient lock. Smoke seeped from between her fingers; iron dripped down the scarred wood. The doors creaked inward.
Cade wondered at Azazel’s purpose in entering the cathedral. As a rule, Watchers avoided churches. Even as a boy, even before Cade knew what he was, he’d harbored an instinctive distrust of consecrated places. He didn’t want to enter this one now.
But he did. The space loomed black and cavernous. The door swung closed behind them.
The high altar was very far away. The long nave was flanked by walls of pointed arches and fluted columns. Scant light filtered through the high window arcades. The night leached the color of the glass, leaving only deadened gray.
Rows of folding chairs were laid out directly before them. A wave of Maddie’s hand sent them careening right and left to slam against pillars and gallery walls. The clatter, strangely, died without reverberation.
Tense anticipation continued to radiate from Azazel’s stolen body. The emotion was so powerful it almost overpowered the stench of Ben-Meir’s corpse.
Cade moved to place his bulk between Maddie and her ancestor. The Watcher did not seem to notice. Azazel was all energy, all will and intent. Cade wondered how long the decaying human body could contain him. And then he realized the truth. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.
Azazel pointed to the swath of pavement Maddie had cleared. “Advance to the center of the pattern, my love. Follow the path.”
Cade’s eyes traced the design on the floor of the nave: a path of light-colored paving stones defined by narrow, darker bands. The course arced around a central point, turning back on itself many times in its circuitous journey to the center. He sensed its power. A magical pattern, created by Watcher magic.
Without hesitation, Maddie approached the labyrinth entrance. As she set foot on the pavers, she lifted a hand to touch the Watcher disc between her breasts. The bloodstone glowed, painting her face an eerie red.
She advanced along the stone path. With each step, Cade’s dread unfolded.
Maddie. Don’t.
A slight jerk of her head told him she’d heard. He braced himself for a corresponding onslaught of retribution. None came. Encouraged, he pressed on.
Maddie. Turn back, cariad.
A hesitation. Then, Why should I?
Because you don’t know what will happen when you reach the center.
Something wonderful.
No. Something evil. Something you don’t want to be a part of.
Her anger slapped at him. I’ll be the judge of that.
Punishment struck as he was forming his reply. His body froze. A great weight descended on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He started to lose consciousness, his vision blotting red. He concentrated all his energy on dragging air into his lungs.
At last th
e weight receded. Maddie seemed to have decided he’d endured enough.
Azazel moved to the start of the path but did not enter the pattern. Instead, he tracked Maddie’s progress with glowing red eyes. Cade thought the Watcher had changed since he’d first appeared on the beach in Sicily. His shoulders drooped. The odor of decay was stronger. Ben-Meir’s dead body was reaching its limit. Was Maddie to be its replacement?
The thought was sickening. And yet, Cade could do nothing. All thoughts he directed now at Maddie’s mind struck a blank wall. Could he do nothing but watch her walk to her doom and hiss in frustration?
Back and forth, round and round she walked. At last she stepped onto the stone rosette in the center of the pattern.
The gem at her breast flared and blue flame sprang up at her feet. Not a consuming flame—there was no smoke, no odor of combustion. Cade wondered if Maddie could feel the blaze licking at her limbs.
If she did, pain didn’t register on her face. Slowly, reverently, she lifted the cord holding the Watcher relic over her head. The disc swung free. She cradled the amulet in her palms, lifted it to her lips. Azazel’s red, hungry eyes devoured the spectacle.
A ribbon of white brilliance appeared, flowing from the talisman. The Seed, seeking a path to life. The light retraced the path Maddie had just traversed, twisting and bending back upon itself in a slow journey to the pattern’s starting point. Azazel, eyes alight, stretched out his hands to receive the magic.
Maddie stood transfixed at the center of the pattern. Blue flames licked her legs, and Cade abruptly realized the block she had erected between their minds had weakened. Had she reached the limit of her newborn magic?
Azazel, absorbed by the weaving progress of the ribbon of light, seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely. Though Cade’s limbs were sluggish, they were once again under his command. He eased forward, throwing his thoughts ahead.
Maddie. Maddie! Can you hear me?
Did she hear him? If so, she gave no sign. She stood as still as a corpse, the white ribbon unwinding from the disc in her hands. Every second brought it closer to Azazel’s grasp.
Maddie. He’s using you.
A flicker in his mind. No. You’re wrong. He’s not.
He is. You won’t survive this. Can’t you see? He’s done with Ben-Meir’s body. Dead flesh won’t sustain his essence much longer. He needs your body as a replacement.
Silence. Wavering doubt fueled by a shadow hidden deep in Maddie’s mind, a memory that was there fleetingly and then gone.
No. He would never do that. He loves me.
Cade crept forward to the very edge of the pattern. The ribbon of white magic separated them many times. What would happen if he tried to cross it?
He needs you, he said. It’s not the same thing. He’s using you. Do you think you’ve chosen to obey him? You haven’t. You’re his slave. As much as I’m yours.
No. It isn’t like that. It isn’t.
Her protests rang angry and strong in his head. But they weren’t, he thought, fully confident. He’d awakened her doubt. He felt a snatch of memory flit through her mind, and Maddie’s head jerked around. Her eyes collided with Cade’s. Then he was falling, falling into bitter memory.
It would not stop raining.
The babe in Lilith’s womb was restless, turning and kicking as if in the throes of a bad dream. But that was fanciful. The child had absorbed Lilith’s own unease, born of the gloom of these endless nights of rain. The torrent beat down on the tent roof without pause. It was enough to drive one mad.
The canyon valley was sodden. If the deluge didn’t stop soon, the tribe would be forced to move to the upper desert. Lilith hoped her babe would be content to remain inside her womb during the difficult journey, but as her stomach muscles clenched, relaxed, and clenched again, she very much feared the child would not wait.
Dripping water found gaps in the tent seams and defects in the oiled hide Azazel had thrown atop the roof the day before. He’d left at dawn, without word as to his destination, though Lilith had begged him to stay. She went into the anteroom and looked out through the flap. The valley was gray, the river swollen and dirty. Of Azazel’s return, there was no sign.
Lilith’s mother Zariel occupied a corner of the tent Lilith now shared with her father and lover; Azazel had ordered his former concubine to attend her as she neared her time. Neither woman wanted the other. Lilith’s swollen belly reminded Zariel of her own time in Azazel’s bed. Zariel’s presence brought unwanted imaginings of the same subject to Lilith.
Reluctant to return to the main room, Lilith remained at the tent’s entrance, supporting her belly with one hand as she scanned the valley with her eyes. The fields were empty of cattle and goats, the herdsmen having moved the flocks to the higher ground at the base of the leeward cliffs. Azazel’s forge was wet and cold, the area around the well deserted. Silence covered the village. Not a single man or woman ventured out.
Another contraction, tighter and longer than the ones before. Lilith wrapped her arms around her belly, but dread curled and squeezed like a snake choking her womb. She reentered the main chamber of the tent and addressed Zariel.
“The babe is coming.”
The hours that followed were a blur of pain. Great crashing waves of agony broke over Lilith, each higher than the last. She gulped for air as each swell receded, her terror of the next constricting her breath. Knives of fire slashed at her stomach. She was sure, in her sweat and terror, that Azazel’s child would rip her in two.
Zariel built up the fire and closed the flap against the driving rain. Smoke gathered under the ceiling, and Lilith’s lungs burned with each inhalation. Her skin itched from the heat. She tore at her clothes.
“Off. Off!”
Zariel helped her remove the sweaty robe. But when she would have lifted the Seed of Life from around Lilith’s neck, Lilith clutched at the cord.
“I want Azazel.” She had stopped calling him Father some time ago.
“I cannot bring your . . . your lover to you,” Zariel said. “He goes where he will, as always. You, girl, must turn your mind to the babe.”
The babe. Her son. Her brother. Her heart constricted with shame. The agony of birthing was punishment, she knew, for the grievous sin she had committed. The knife of agony that had pierced her gut was bent now on slicing her open. She screamed and screamed until her lungs spasmed.
When she paused to draw breath, Zariel shoved a bundle of rags into her mouth. “Bite this. And do not exhaust yourself. You will need all your strength later if this cursed child is to live.”
Lilith sank her teeth into the rags. Later? How much later? She could not endure much more.
The winds howled. Pain pounded her in relentless tides. How long her ordeal continued, she could not have said; she knew only great crashing waves of agony followed by shorter periods of exhausted respite.
Sometime during her suffering, the tent flap lifted. A masculine voice addressed Zariel, and with an effort Lilith turned her head toward it. He was here!
“Azazel—” Her plea was muffled by the rag in her mouth.
He strode to her bedside and clasped her hand. She wanted to speak, to seek his reassurance, but the wave of pain was cresting again, and it was all she could do to keep from sobbing. She was at the limit of her strength. And yet, Zariel’s terse answers to Azazel’s queries told her the babe was not nearly ready to be born.
Perhaps he would never be. Perhaps she would die birthing him, and he would die with her. But, no. That wasn’t right. She laid her palm on her chest, covering the amulet. Eternal life was hers. Hers and Azazel’s. She had bought it with her blood. He had promised her they would live together, forever.
The relentless pain continued. As Lilith labored on into the night, it seemed the earth itself had joined her cause. The ground shuddered in measured cadence. The howling wind answered.
Azazel left her side to find repose on the couch while she worked to birth his child. The knife in L
ilith’s gut twisted round and round and round again. Would it never be done? Would she never be free of torment? Anger and fear threw her into a frenzy. She kicked at Zariel’s restraining hands, spat the rag from her mouth and screamed.
Perhaps her fury reached the heavens, for at the precise moment Lilith collapsed, a great rumbling shook the tent. A gust of wind howled. The oiled hides over her head ripped in two, rain pounded down upon her, and tingling power seared the air. A bolt of lightning exploded in her bed, barely missing her body.
The force of the strike flung her to the ground as thunder crashed. Searing pain knifed her left arm. Gasping, she clutched at her shoulder, only to cry out when the contact brought worse agony. The sweet sick odor of burned flesh assaulted her nostrils.
She snatched her hand away. Charred bits of skin clung to her fingers, and Azazel was on his feet, shaking his fist at the sky. “You will not win!” he shouted.
Lilith did not understand. Flames leaped from the bed coverings, hissing and smoking under the pelting rain. Zariel cowered, and Azazel shouted curses to the storm. Lilith’s pain-riddled mind could process none of it. The next contraction was upon her. She hunched over her belly and emitted an animal moan.
The ruined tent was suddenly bathed in brilliant light. Lilith rolled to her side, gasping. Far above, framed by blackened clouds, floated an ethereal figure clothed in blinding light, its unfurled wings the color of pure gold. Yellow flame spat from its gleaming sword; the weapon showered sparks upon the earth.
Panicked screams burst from the village. The men were out in the open, shouting. The wails of the women and the sobs of the children formed a desperate kind of music.
The holy angel spoke, and his voice boomed like thunder. “Abominations! Defilers of earth! Perversions of nature!”
“Raphael!” Azazel roared. His fist shook. “You will not vanquish me! My power is too great! You cannot defeat it. You cannot destroy me!”