Blood gushed from the wound, and into the air drifted a blackness like smoke. It smothered her mother, who stumbled back, away from the figure, coughing at the putrid energy oozing from her foe.
When the blackness finally cleared, Sylvie grabbed her sword, cleaned it on Arael’s clothing, and stumbled out of the range of the window’s vision.
The darkness of the image dissolved into frantic gray dots once more, and Angelica was left stunned. What she had seen was too much, and how was she even able to see it? It was like she’d been there, looking in on a private moment, as if she had been a bug on the wall. For several moments they were all silent, stunned by what they had seen.
“But what does that mean? How do we kill him?” Angelica wondered.
The voice was silent for several minutes, then, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not going to be able to tell you,” Joya said. “That probably isn’t in any line of fate.”
“But we can guess,” Jovian said.
Angelica was already nodding. “Yes, if mother killed him out of hatred and revenge, and that’s what his power thrives on, then we have to kill him out of love, from a place of forgiveness.”
“Isn’t killing kind of contrary to love and forgiveness?” Joya asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Not necessarily,” Jovian said. “If you are out hunting, you don’t kill an animal because you hate it. You kill the animal because you have a need to survive, and the animal helps that. It would be the same way with Arael. We need to kill him so that everyone else can go on living.”
“We don’t need to do it out of a place of hatred,” Angelica agreed.
“But it’s more than that.” Joya stepped away from the two of them and leaned against the opposite wall. “You can’t have any hatred for him in your heart. Is that something you can do?”
“Yes,” Jovian said, but Angelica looked at her hands again. The truth was, she didn’t think she could find any love for Arael in her heart. “Angie?” Jovian said, drawing her attention to his face. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh, Jovian, as if you don’t already know,” Angelica joked. “How can we love him?” she went on. “How can we not kill Arael out of hatred? Think of all the things he’s done to us: he destroyed our home, he kidnapped our sister, and he changed everything about our lives. Because of him we are in untold danger, and he is trying to destroy everything good in the realms. How are we just supposed to turn a blind eye to all of that?”
Jovian leaned his head back against the chair and looked at the cold lights on the ceiling. “You’re right.”
Joya nodded. “But what about this angelic power we’re supposed to hold? Everyone makes it sound like we have this awesome power, and we aren’t even able to tap into it. Grace said as soon as we came to terms with who and what we are, we would grow stronger.”
“I think what Grace meant is that when we finally accepted what and who we are, we would stop dwelling on it and then we would grow,” Jovian said. “And we have, don’t you think?”
Angelica sighed. Jovian was right. She would hardly recognize the girl she was before this all started if she met her on the streets of Meedesville.
“What about that window,” Joya pointed at the glass. “Do you think it could tell us?”
“Would the vault be able to tell us that?” Angelica wondered. “That’s not in the fates, right?”
“What are the powers of angels?” Jovian asked.
“Angels have the power of forgiveness, of justice,” the voice said. “Power to heal the sick, to protect the weak, to usher departed souls form this world and into the next. Angels can grant miracles, and are the messengers of the Goddess.”
“How is it able to tell us this?” Angelica wondered. Jovian shrugged.
“Sounds a little lame to me,” Joya said, rubbing her eyebrow.
“I don’t know, I think it sounds pretty powerful, being able to create miracles and pardon fallen souls.”
“Maybe fallen angels too?” Angelica wondered. “That could be useful when we get to the fallen angels.”
“What, you are just going to pardon a bunch of bad angels, and send them to the Ever After where they want to be?” Joya asked.
Angelica looked down at her hands.
“But in accordance with the Goddess, all things are possible,” the voice finally said. “As messengers of the Goddess, angels are able to work her will.”
Great, more cryptic messages, Angelica thought.
Before they could speak again, the gray dots began to move around once more, and when they solidified, there was a single heading on the screen: Vorustum-Apaleer, Current. And then, without waiting for orders, the glass revealed to them what was happening outside at that time.
Cianna was on her knees, a black-robed figure standing over her. They recognized the white hand, held like a claw above her head, and the odd, gurgling noise that was coming from deep within its throat.
“The verax-acis has found us!” Joya said, and started looking around the room for a way out.
“Oh no,” Jovian moaned because the image had changed, and there, black wings stretched out, was a muscular figure kneeling before Maeven, its head buried in his neck, holding Maeven’s limp form tight to its body.
Grace stood under the ancient twisted boughs of her oak tree, gazing up at the stars she could see whenever the breeze lazily moved the limbs apart. Slowly her breath eased into rhythm with the ebb and flow of the wind. She had never been to the ocean, but Grace liked to imagine that the wind blowing through the trees and over the field of flowers was what the ocean would sound like.
“They will be back,” she heard a voice say, very near at hand.
Grace turned and saw a reflection of herself standing not far away, just out of the sheltering embrace of the tree, in a pool of golden sunlight. Her head glowed with a nimbus of silvery light, and her very being exuded power. As she studied the image, it began to transform, the hair changing from gray to black in such a fashion that Grace didn’t realize it was happening until the change was complete. In fact, the entire transformation was so subtle, from old crone to pregnant mother, that Grace couldn’t even remember seeing it happen.
“Who will?” Grace asked.
“The alarists, the fallen. Those that Devenstar, Pi, and Clara saw today were nothing more than scouts. Now that they know you are aware of their presence, they will not wait before attacking. They’ve seen Lytoria; they know you have no defenses. They will attack soon.”
The words of the Goddess brought Grace out of a sound sleep, slumber completely forgotten. They had to act, they had to do something. When would the attack come? Who was even orchestrating the defenses here?
Grace dressed in a hurry, donning her green robes and quickly binding her hair behind her neck. She could still feel the power of the dream within her, and the strange sensation of seeing the Goddess take shape out of her own figure, but those things weren’t important now.
Nothing more than images of a dream, she told herself. But then again, if they were just the images of a dream, why did Grace find herself racing through the halls of the High Votary’s house, searching for her sister?
Sara’s room was empty, as were Annbell’s and the rooms of the other Guardians. She rested for a moment in the reception hall, just inside the entrance door, pondering where they could be.
It makes sense that they would be deciding defenses, Grace thought. She knew reinforcements were days away, maybe even as long as a fortnight. She let her feet carry her to the basilica, imagining that if they weren’t in the chambers, they would be there.
She stepped out into the cool night, the moon hanging high above, casting silvery light down on the streets of Lytoria. Dalah was right; even in the faint light of the moon Grace could feel the swell of relaxing music humming from the buildings of the city. The sound was enough to ease her panic, but not her need. Her ancient legs carried her up the numerous stairs to the basilica. Even at ni
ght it was left open, which was a testament to the trust bestowed on visitors and citizens of Lytoria.
The cloistered hall was silent when Grace stepped in, her feet thumping lightly on the carpet. She eased the door shut, as if she might wake someone. Only a few lamps remained lit along the halls and in the main chamber ahead. But the seat of the High Votary, behind the ornate altar, was bathed in silver moonlight from an atrium above. Grace wanted to see it in all its splendor, up close, knowing she would find a peace and ease of power there to rival the one she felt humming from the walls of the basilica, but she didn’t have the time.
She let her feet carry her further into the building, and her gaze wandered down the left hall, and then the right. There, at the end of the right hall, she saw a light glowing out from under a heavy wooden door.
Certain that was where they were holding their meeting, Grace marched toward the door. But when she stopped outside of the room, she could feel a power oozing out of it that she at once recognized and yet felt was alien to her.
“You can come in,” a melodious voice answered from beyond the scarred door.
Grace placed her hand to the ring handle and pulled the door open with a groan of hinges.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she eased to one knee. Beyond, standing before the door, was a sculpture come to life. Pristine white wings were folded against the angel’s back, and his black hair cascaded around his shoulders like inky water breaking around white stones.
Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes, and she was uncertain if mortal eyes should even look at his beauty. But she knew this angel, she felt a kinship with this angel.
“Dear Lady, it is I who should bow to you,” the angel said. He motioned for her to stand, and then went to his knees before her, bowing his head to the floor in a complete display of submission.
“Laphrael,” Grace said, standing. “What are you doing here?”
“Only what you asked, Goddess,” he responded. His words made Grace’s head swim, and she stumbled back, sinking into a chair beside the door. She gripped the arms of the chair as she looked around, bewildered. “Moonchild, are you unwell?” The angel came to Grace’s side.
“Why did you call me that?” Grace asked, knowing well enough now that the dreams were real.
“You are the most important piece here,” Laphrael told her. “Even more important than the High Votary. If we are to stand a chance against what comes, then it is with your aid.”
“The fallen,” Grace whispered, and closed her eyes.
“The legion of the Otherworld,” Laphrael agreed.
“And what am I to do?” she asked, never opening her eyes, trying to let all of this sink in. With any luck she would wake up and find this was nothing more than a dream.
“When the time comes, you will know it. The Goddess didn’t tell me details, only to protect her body. I assumed she meant the High Votary; I didn’t realize the Moonchild had been awoken.” Laphrael kneeled before her, and Grace opened her eyes, her gaze falling on the ring of lilacs in his hair. “Are you feeling better?”
Grace nodded.
“Are you able to walk?” he asked. Again, Grace nodded. “Then come, we need to attend the meeting before it’s over.”
No sooner had Jovian stood then a familiar blue-silver light gathered around them. There was a sense of being pulled apart, a dizzying displacement, and when the light cleared, he was standing in the cool courtyard of Vorustum-Apaleer.
He knew that the verax-acis was there, but he couldn’t see anything past the rephaim feasting at Maeven’s neck. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been gone, but he knew that the sun had been up when they were swept into their visions, apparently from the verax-acis, and now it was dusk. A light storm was even blowing in.
Maeven was limp in the rephaim’s arms, and Jovian feared the worst. The shin-buto was in his hands before he realized it, and the need to get the rephaim away from Maeven and protect him was enough to unlock the power, causing the force of the shin-buto to hammer through Jovian’s body like a second heart.
He sprinted the short distance to the rephaim and plunged his sword through its back, making sure not to go far enough that he would skewer Maeven as well. He felt the blade hum with release, singing with the protective instinct coursing through Jovian.
The rephaim seemed uninjured. Maeven fell from the angel’s arms, very little blood oozing from his neck to paint the snow crimson. The rephaim swung around, and Jovian lost his grip on the shin-buto. The rephaim crashed a huge fist into Jovian’s head and Jovian flew backwards, through the silver light and into the Vault of Fate. He slammed into it hard, his head knocking against the strange wall.
When he stood, he had the strange sensation of being displaced again, and he was once more outside. The rephaim was bearing down on him, like a mountain with legs. Jovian barely had time to dash to the side before the rephaim barreled past him. Jovian jumped for his shin-buto, but it stuck out of the angel’s back far enough up that Jovian could barely brush it with the tips of his fingers.
The rephaim, realizing he hadn’t bowled Jovian over, kicked backward, taking Jovian square in the chest, knocking the breath from him and shoving him into one of the tall towers of Vorustum-Apaleer.
Jovian straightened up, listed to the side, caught his footing, and then crashed to the ground in a wash of dizziness. The fallen was bearing down on him, and would likely have him. Before everything went dark, Jovian saw purple lightning lance out of the snow and take the rephaim by storm.
It had all happened so fast — the power of the shin-buto had made Jovian like a blur, and the rephaim had moved just as quickly. Angelica barely had time to react and draw her blade before Jovian went down and didn’t show any signs of getting back up.
But now that her blade was in hand, the power of the wyrd sang through her, and she blasted out with a torrent of lightning. Purple lightning sang outward, lighting the ground with its fire and burning the air, throwing the smell of sulfur around the courtyard.
The rephaim stopped mid-stride and turned to Angelica. His face was still stained with Maeven’s blood, but if she thought about that now, she would lose her edge. The rephaim came for her, apparently oblivious to her wyrded storm.
She added fire to the mix, lashing out with a blaze that mingled with the lightning. The rephaim paused, blasted back by the force of her attack, and where the purple lightning touched, feathers and skin began to smolder.
She needed help, but Shelara and Caldamron were still out of it, under the thrall of the verax-acis, and Joya was already working her way toward the deplorable mind-sucker.
The rephaim screamed, an unholy sound that shivered the snow in the air and made the mountains quake as they tossed back his call.
Angelica eased her way toward him, shin-buto in one hand, wyrd blazing out of the other. She was starting to tire, and she knew that the sword was as well. But she had to do this. She directed her inferno toward the wings, and they burst into flame like the driest of tinder, kindling under the raging heat of a forest fire.
Twin bonfires bloomed out of the rephaim’s back, melting feather and sinew. Membranous liquid sloughed off the bone of its wings as the fallen screamed.
Angelica was nearly on him when he stood and shrugged off the blaze in a ripple of power that reverberated through the city, extinguishing Angelica’s wyrded storm in a whisper of violet light. She stumbled back, breathless from the exchange, and that was when the rephaim acted.
He grabbed her around the throat with a meaty hand and lifted her flailing body clear off the ground. He looked her in the eyes, and those black pools seemed to drink in all hope and fight she had left in her.
With a powerful blow, he slammed his fist into her gut, and Angelica crashed against one of the buildings.
She stood, her feet unsteady under her, her head swimming with stars, and lifted her hand. Lightning fizzled across her palms, but wouldn’t obey her. She was too tired, and her brain too addled by the attack.
“Pitiful mortal,” the fallen taunted, his voice impossibly deep. “Not even with your wings yet. You will never make it to the tower.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Angelica said. “Your master wants me alive, so you had better hope you didn’t kill my brother.”
The rephaim faltered, looked behind him at where Jovian lay unconscious on the ground. The fallen shrugged.
“He’s still in there,” he said, turning back to Angelica. His wings were still smoldering, and she couldn’t imagine what kind of pain he was in. Maybe he was feeding off it? “He wants you alive, he never said anything about undamaged.”
While he talked Angelica got her bearings and raised her sword. “Well, you’re out of luck.”
He laughed, a deep throaty laugh that Angelica could feel tumbling through her body, shaking the ground beneath her feet. “You are without your power, human.”
“Without my wyrd, not without power. This shin-buto belongs to Pharoh LaFaye,” Angelica hoped that struck fear into his heart, but all it did was make him laugh harder.
“Once belonged to her; it has since been reassigned to you. It holds no more power than you do, despite its previous owner.” He stepped closer, and Angelica had to fight the urge to retreat. She was out of options. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she had to do something. There was no one to help her, no one to distract the rephaim.
He came close enough that she could feel his breath along her skin, and before he could say another word, she drove the shin-buto straight up through his stomach and into his chest. There it struck something that wasn’t organ or bone, but something harder.
The steel of Jovian’s shin-buto reverberated with the power held captive within Angelica’s sword. She felt her blade sing with power, joining with the power of his sword. An answering vibration came through the pommel, and the rephaim stumbled back.
The Turquoise Tower (Revenant Wyrd Book 6) Page 15