And a figure, muscular and robed, shooting arrows as large as spears into their helpless, tumbling bodies.
40
Lucia
Lucia escaped the museum and sucked in a great breath of cool night air. She sighed audibly, her throat tight. Things weren’t getting easier; the passage of time did not make her miss Armaros and Delia any less.
And she didn’t want to. She wanted their faces at the forefront of her mind, or better yet, she wanted them in front of her. She wanted to touch them and hug them, and hear their voices.
It wasn’t enough to have changed her dissertation as a way to touch Armaros’s past; at the end of her research, she wouldn’t find him and hold him. Instead, she’d superimposed his face on illustrations, her heart breaking for the pain he’d suffered, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She got to be full of anger and yearning and hurt and had to live with it. Delia and Armaros were her family. She loved them and she had no way to show them.
Lucia started across campus, not knowing where she was going. A group of students idled past, and she followed them, trailing in their wake. When they branched off, going into a dorm, Lucia shadowed a different group of students, her eyes on their shoes and not on where she was. Each step was like a heartbeat. Her mind went over her situation as she searched for solutions.
Because she couldn’t keep going like this. She didn’t care about the risk to herself. She wanted her family back.
Someone bumped into her shoulder and she glanced up, surprised. “Sorry,” the person apologized, hurrying away.
Lucia watched the well-dressed woman, heels clicking against the pavement, hurry up the steps into the chapel. Yellow light spilled outside as an usher opened the door, and the strains of a violin washed over Lucia.
The music called to her, beautiful melodies reaching like a caring hand to pull Lucia inside. An usher opened the door for her, glancing down at her outfit. Examining her clothes, she realized she was underdressed for a concert. Still, she wanted to be inside and when he didn’t stop her or ask to see her ticket, she went in.
Two more ushers stood at the edges of the entryway, taking tickets and leading people to pews. Taking advantage of the ushers’ distraction, she hurried toward a staircase leading to the second floor. The stairs were old, a hundred years of feet having worn the center of each step. The wood creaked and Lucia paused, afraid the sound had echoed throughout the chapel. When no one came up the stairs behind her, she continued on, emerging onto the balcony.
Immediately, she ducked, hunching low and sneaking to a pew. Two rows lined each side of the U-shaped area, the center open so the first floor was visible. Finding a dark corner, she sunk low into the seat.
The music was even more lovely from inside. Lucia closed her eyes, imagining the notes rising into the air and swirling around her. The pew groaned as she shifted, curling her legs under her and propping her chin on her hand.
A second violin joined the first, a counterpoint, and then a cello, low vibrating tones sinking past her skin and into her bones.
She wished Armaros was here. They never got a chance to learn the most cursory information about each other. She had no idea what kind of music he liked. Would he think this was dull? Or would he be as moved as her? Would he smile and hold her hand, tolerating the performance because it made her happy?
Why can’t we be together? She sent the question into the universe. Her heart hurt. I love him. He is good. He deserves happiness.
“Does he?” a voice whispered in her ear.
Gasping, she jerked upright, staring around in confusion. Two blue eyes appeared in the darkness, and slowly a face formed out of the shadows.
This was a face she knew, blonde hair swept into a low ponytail, buttoned shirt, jeans.
Aaron.
As she watched in disbelief, his face continued to change, the skin paling, the hair shortening, darkening. And then, rising above his form, gleaming gold like the sun—wings.
“I know you.” Her heart quickened, the steady thump, thump increasing in tempo until she felt it in her neck and wrists. “From the monastery.”
In his hand appeared the golden sword, and she remembered when he appeared to fight Armaros, she’d compared the two. She thought he was the dark to Armaros’s light, and now, here in the dim balcony of a chapel as he morphed from colleague to angel, she realized they were two sides of the same coin. He was evil; Armaros was good.
His lips split into a grin. “Good, evil. Light, dark. Fallen, Loyal. Nothing is so simple Lucia,” he said as if he had heard her thoughts. Then—“I do,” he answered. “I am Jeheol. I am a Warrior.”
“Armaros isn’t here,” Lucia blurted, waiting for the moment when the music stopped and a collective gasp signaled the audience had noticed the angel with the flaming sword.
“They won’t,” Jeheol answered. “Unless I want them to.”
The tip of the sword touched the ground, hissing against the wood. A pattern began to appear in the floor, circles and lines. Smoke wound its way toward the ceiling, the floor glowing red around each line. Someone coughed, and then another person, and another. Between her and Jeheol, the floor burst into flames and someone screamed. Lucia jumped back, but there was nowhere for her to go. The wall was at her back, and fire in front of her.
She hit the floor, crawling away from the heat until she found the wall. The flames crept closer and closer. Lucia covered her face, coughing into her sleeve. Beneath her, wood groaned. Feet pounded against the floor as the audience rushed to the exits, crying out in panic.
Something broke beneath her, and the floor dropped away. She tried to scream but sucked in a lungful of smoke. The floor bounced, catching on something. Blinking to clear her watering eyes, she found the balcony and crawled toward it. She grasped the edge, pulling herself up, but there was nowhere to escape the smoke.
Through the flames, Jeheol’s figure materialized. The fire didn’t touch him, in fact, it parted for him. “What do you want?” she cried between fits of coughing.
He knelt, one finger touching her chin and then wiping away the tears running from her burning eyes. “I want to help. Help you. Help Armaros. You want him to be happy? Come with me.”
He’d been following her for months, pretending to be human and all he wanted was for her to be happy? I don’t think so.
“There needs to be a balance,” Jeheol explained, and somehow, she could hear his voice over the roar of the fire and the wood breaking and falling. Somewhere below her, glass shattered. “The balance brings peace. For all of us. For Armaros. Will you let him suffer as he’s been suffering?” His blue eyes were calm and sad. They entreated her to help.
And if Armaros suffered…She didn’t care if it was bullshit.
“I’ll help him,” she replied, and he reached for her. The inferno roared around her, luminous, engulfing her in white hot heat. Bathed in light, the only thing she could feel were Jeheol’s fingers, wrapped around her wrist.
41
Armaros
It’d been a long time since Armaros had felt true pain. Hanielle’s sword had sliced through shield and bone, but he fought for Lucia and ignored the hurt.
He’d been bathed in fire, had his wings torn from his back and was cast out of Heaven. He smashed into earth from a distance immeasurable.
And none of it hurt as much as watching Lucia trapped inside a burning chapel.
He was stuck in an in-between space. Something pulled him from the light, and dumped him here. Neither Heaven nor Hell, he’d found himself chained, arms, legs, unable to move. While in front of him, like a movie, he stared at Lucia’s image.
Her fingertips had brushed copper plates, her face sad. He could hear her, speaking with the man in the museum. If he hadn’t been so concerned about why he’d emerged from that blinding brightness, chained and powerless, in a space he’d never encountered in his long life, he would have enjoyed his situation. Lucia had worn a hairnet and a baggy coveral
l; her eyes shone as she’d been presented with page after page of illustrations.
She was beautiful.
Her sadness, though. It caught him by surprise. He wished he could see what it was she saw, and understand why it affected her so much.
The fire burned higher, and Lucia scrambled away. He fought his chains, cuffs cutting into his wrists. He dug inside himself, searching for any spark of power.
It was like trying to start a car with a dead battery; there was nothing.
Lucia stared straight ahead, and he realized, this entire vision was from someone’s point of view. The point of view, he suspected, of whomever brought and trapped him here.
To his horror, Lucia began to nod in agreement. He knew what would happen, but nevertheless he cried out, “No!”
And then she appeared in front of him, hand held by a familiar enemy.
“Jeheol,” he breathed.
“Armaros!” His name on Lucia’s lips—he’d fantasized about it a million times. But never like this. He never wanted to see fear in her eyes again.
Jeheol approached him, sword held in a white-knuckle grip. He dragged it along Armaros's arm, from bleeding wrist to bleeding wrist.
“Stop!” Eyes glued to his, Lucia attempted to approach him, but Jeheol held out a hand and she froze. Perfect. Jeheol was flush with power.
Slowly, the angel morphed. Hair growing, lightening, body shifting, shrinking. In front of him stood the little turd he’d been glaring at for the past two months. “Aaron.”
“Your human…” Jeheol sighed, shaking his head and adopting his angelic form again. “This all would have been so much easier if she’d listened to me. I spent months whispering in her ear. A waste of time.”
The room filled with whispers. Give up. This is your life now. You’re a peon. Is the pain worth it? Don’t you want it to end?
Drawing back his sword, Jeheol thrust it against Armaros’s ribs. It skimmed his skin, slicing through muscle.
“Stop!” Lucia pleaded again.
“I’m fine,” he assured her quickly. It wasn’t true. An angel’s sword was the sole weapon in the universe that could harm a Fallen. Imbued with the Creator’s ability to destroy, it could torture, maim, and kill. Though, without a soul, he would disintegrate into nothing.
If Jeheol truly wanted him dead, it would take nothing to accomplish.
“Why should you, Fallen—” the angel spat, “—why should you find happiness? You were meant to suffer.” The sword sliced along one cheekbone and the other. Over Jeheol’s shoulder, Lucia pounded at the barrier keeping her from him. Tears ran down her face. Her lips moved, I love you. I love you.
“I love you,” he replied. A sad smile touched her lips in response. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Forcefully, she shook her head. “No apologies.”
“This is what I mean!” Jeheol stabbed him, one thrust after another, punctuating each word. He dropped the sword, and Lucia dropped to her knees, sobbing as Jeheol began to speak again. “You are not meant for love. You were meant for worship, and when you denied that, when you chose to fall, torment was your fate. First your sister—finding a human, falling in love, having a child! Now, you. The rest of us did what we were supposed to. Followed the rules, and have we been rewarded? No.”
The angel, usually so emotionless and serene, panted with agitation. His skin flashed and his eyes glowed, golden and fiery. He released a deep breath and smoothed his hair before picking up his sword. “No,” he repeated. “We have not.”
Angrily, he stalked toward Lucia, the barrier that kept her out not delaying him at all. Seeing what he meant to do, Armaros struggled with the chains. They were heavenly creations, meant to bind creatures like himself and there was no escaping them. With barely any movement left in his fingers, he knew he’d managed to do some damage. But he didn’t care if he wrenched his hands off, if it meant he could put himself between Lucia and the avenging angel.
Gripping Lucia by the arm, Jeheol dragged her to Armaros, tossing her at his feet. His blood rolled off his body, dripping onto her cheeks and mingling with her tears.
“Choose, human,” Jeheol commanded, standing straight. He held out a hand and the sword reappeared. “Like he once did. He chose Lucifer and selfishness over his Creator, over his purpose. Now, you choose. Do you choose righteousness or do you choose him?”
Lucia’s shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. Reaching up, her fingers grazed Armaros's feet before Jeheol knelt and took both of her hands in his.
“Don’t touch her!” he roared, straining at the chains.
Jeheol ignored him, reached for her cheek, and wiped away tears. “Lucia, named after the saint, patron to martyrs, what do you choose?”
Slowly Lucia’s eyes lifted to Armaros’s, and he saw her decision. “No,” he whispered, then louder. “No! Lucia, no!”
“Him.” She smiled through her tears, her eyes holding his. “I choose love.”
Jeheol stood, the mask of indifference coming over his features again. “Then you choose to fall.” A golden bow appeared in his hand, and his sword lengthened, growing wider, sharper.
“No!” Armaros tore at the chains, his body jerking and arching. He knew that bow, felt that spear. Those arrows, meant for angel flesh, had pierced his body a thousand times on his infinite fall.
Jeheol stepped away.
“Lucia. I want you to live. Please, choose differently. Please,” his voice broke as he begged. “Please.”
Jeheol lifted the bow, notching the arrow and pulling it back. Lucia’s eyes widened before they cut to his. He wanted to be strong for her, but he couldn’t. All he wanted was her happiness. He wanted her to have a life.
With a snick, Jeheol released the arrow. Body jerking, Lucia flew backward, arrow embedded in her heart. But she didn’t fall onto her back. The floor opened up, disappearing as if it’d never been, and blackness— thick and impenetrable—embraced her as she began to fall.
42
Armaros
Armaros stared at the pit in disbelief. His mind fractured, breaking and shattering like glass. The chains holding him dissolved and he fell, hitting the ground with a thud. His hands held him upright, and he stared at them. How could he still be alive when he was so empty inside? His eyes cut to the place where Lucia had fallen, and slowly, insidiously, the emptiness began to fill with rage.
Boots appeared in front of him, and as he watched, his wounds began to knit and heal. The blood stopped flowing and power suffused his body.
“Now, you live as you were meant to—” the angel’s voice echoed through him. “—alone. In eternal torment. The balance is restored.”
The angel believed he was a monster? Let them see how monstrous he could be. With his power, he transformed, embracing his hideous form. Wings sprung from his back, and he grew larger than he’d ever been, proportional with the pain and devastation mingling with his anger. His sword, when he called for it, burned white with heat. Nothing would stop him.
Roaring, he flung himself at Jeheol. The angel smiled, parrying his thrusts. As a Fallen, he towered over Jeheol, but his power had limits, and they were hardly a match for a being made for one purpose by the Creator of everything.
Each slide of blade against skin was welcome. Armaros wanted more of it. Purposefully, he stepped in front of Jeheol’s weapon, twisting and turning, letting the blows land.
“I won’t kill you,” the angel said calmly. “This is your fate.”
“I will smash the gates of Heaven,” Armaros growled, his fangs cutting into his lips and tongue, filling his mouth with blood. “I will destroy everything. Everything!” His voice filled the room, shattering whatever constructed it. He beat his wings against the air, hovering.
Like pieces of a mirror, the room splintered and scattered, leaving him and Jeheol in the darkness, the only light from their swords.
The darkness was the space between Heaven and Earth, and there was but one direction go to. Lifting his wings
and thrusting them down, Armaros propelled himself higher.
Faster and faster, he flew, indefatigable. He forgot about Jeheol, he forgot about his injuries, he forgot about Delia. Only one things mattered to him: revenge.
When he was finished, there would be nothing left. Not even him.
43
Lucia
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Lucia opened her eyes, hands slapping against the ground. Her fingers touched grass, digging past the blades into the dirt to hold herself in place. She’d been falling, and falling, and falling.
Dying.
She sat, dirty hands clutching her chest, expecting to feel the javelin protruding from her breast. But there was nothing. Clean shirt, clean pants, dirty hands.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes, and met the angry, confused stare of Hanielle.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Lucia breathed, realizing what this meant, and where she had to be to be running into an angel.
“I asked you a question.” Hanielle crossed her arms. She stood over Lucia, a bright blue sky framing her body. A warm breeze tossed Lucia’s hair around her face and she tucked it behind her ear as she stood.
“This is Heaven?” she asked, standing. “It looks like Heaven.” Green rolling hills, flowers, tall trees blowing in the breeze. The scent of sunshine and freshly cut grass. “It smells like Heaven.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Hanielle lamented.
“Go easy on her,” someone added. Shimmering into form, another angel appeared, Hanielle’s twin perhaps. Both were tall and blonde. But this angel had sharper angles, cheekbones that could cut glass, and cherry red eyes. She was familiar, even though Lucia had never seen her before. Eyes widening, she realized why. “Vasanthi?” Armaros’s sister.
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