Archon

by Benulis, Sabrina

  “It had nothing to do with money,” Angela said, sitting back down. She pulled up her tights, her arm gloves, trying not to appear awkward and freakish.

  It wouldn’t make any real difference. Blood heads got attention wherever they went. And if you were a blood head who never bared your arms and legs, even when you wore a short skirt and a ruffled blouse, that only made you ten times more interesting. The granite Exhibit Hall was so stuffed with students, teachers, Vatican novices, priests, appraisers, and proud parents, every other someone was noticing Angela at every other moment. She was probably just as fascinating, if not more so, than the paintings that had gotten her locked away for two years.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” The woman waved her hand. “Only geniuses and richers come to this academy after all. Oh, and blood heads.”

  “That had nothing to do with it either.”

  “So it was a matter of talent, huh?” She stood back, still judging. “Yeah, well, you do have some. Although I can’t understand why you paint the pictures with the dark gray angel completely in the abstract. I feel kind of cheated.”

  “It has to do with what I see.” Angela pointed at the architecture surrounding them; a vaulted cathedral ceiling of stone, its upper crevices riddled with peering statues and grimacing faces carved into the rock. A few of the walls were so tall, their highest corners faded into a vast network of shade and darkness. It was easy to imagine that real monsters might live up there, hiding, analyzing the thousands of people that milled across the tiles below, waiting for individuals to separate themselves from the main herd and get lost in the innumerable halls and corridors that made up the Academy’s largest student center. “Look at that.” Angela pointed at the statue of an angel with swanlike wings, his hand grasping a lantern meant to light part of the room below. Unfortunately, the candle inside was sputtering to nothing. “See how clear and defined his features are. You can see everything. The expression. The folds in his robe. The nails on his toes.”

  Now she pointed at the window behind them, its lead panes streaked with heavy rain.

  Barely discernible through the blur of water and wind, another angel statue leaned out from the gable, his palm lifted high, as if to catch the drops that had worn it down to a flattened disc. Thunder shivered the glass, and an intense flash of lightning highlighted the ghastly flaws in his features.

  “But over here, it’s different. I know this is an angel, but everything about him is blurred, and dark, and changeable.” Angela indicated the pictures of the gray angel. “So the painting comes out like this.”

  “You seem to like this one—with the bronze wings,” the young woman said. She was inspecting the nearest image of the beautiful angel, awed as Angela was always awed by his proud eyes and perfect pink lips. Often he appeared dressed in a red coat that dazzled her with its silver thread, or wearing jeweled barrettes in his hair, or carrying a lyre made of crystal. “But I don’t get the wings on the ears,” she continued. “Was that your idea?”

  “Like I said”—Angela couldn’t stop her sigh—“I just paint what I see.”

  But even more often, he would walk into her dreams and leave without saying a word.

  “It’s like you know them personally.” The girl sat down next to Angela on the bench, crossing her legs and rifling through her bag. Her hand reemerged with a sack of cheddar chips, and she offered some crumbs, generous. “You actually look an awful lot like them. You’ve got big eyes, has anyone told you that before?”

  “They certainly have,” Angela said, taking a handful of food. “Thanks. I’m Angela Mathers, by the way.”

  “Nina Willis.” Nina drew in her legs, finally realizing she was going to trip someone. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here for a minute. I’ve been looking for a bench for about an hour. So are you in the university classes?”

  “You could say that. I just arrived in Luz three days ago, actually. I haven’t even had a chance to open a book yet.” Angela stood up, bowing to a passing group of Vatican novices, a few of them eyeballing her longer than she felt comfortable with.

  There was a tall one at the end of their gang, so strikingly pale that his skin resembled paper, his eyes a vivid and penetrating amber color. Like the others he wore the long dark coat of a novice, but his hair was as striking as his face, the strands pitch-black except for a chunk dyed fire engine red.

  When he left with the others, Angela felt it wouldn’t be for long. “Despite what you said about me being a blood head, I actually got into the Academy because of my art. And because my parents are dead. They never let me get out much.” She continued to stare after the novice with the black hair. “Though I didn’t always disagree with that. Sometimes I feel like I’m really the one on display, not the pictures.”

  Nina shrugged off the comment, shifting aside to let a couple examine Angela’s best self-portrait. The painting wasn’t perfect, but it captured her large blue eyes and angular face rather well. She was reclining on her parents’ old parlor room sofa, her fine blood-red hair covering half her body like a poker-straight curtain. That was before the burns, the scars, and the need to cover herself almost head to toe in fabric.

  The couple made sure to remark on that before turning to the neighboring booth.

  “Are you talking about the novices?” Nina said. “Don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just all tightwads about blood heads lately because of the murders near the Academy. They think the sororities and fraternities are getting out of hand again, dabbling in all kinds of occult stuff. I think they’re giving Stephanie and her lackeys too much credit.”

  “Stephanie?”

  “Stephanie Walsh.” Nina stared down at her shoes, a chip half raised to her lips. Her voice hushed drastically. “I’m actually surprised you haven’t met her yet. She has a habit of meeting new blood heads, absorbing them into her sorority, then controlling their lives for three more years after that. I guess you could say she’s the queen bee here at Westwood, keeping tabs on everyone who’s anyone—and even people like me, who aren’t. You’re pretty popular already, so I’m sure she’s going to make it a point to meet you. Just so you know.”

  Popular? The only place Angela had ever been popular was in the psych ward at the institution. There, her long hair and scars had made her more intriguing than a supermodel. But anywhere else, she was a freak, a monster, a danger, the possible fulfillment of a prophecy that meant death and destruction on a staggering scale.

  A century had passed on Earth since the Vatican chose to reveal its ominous conclusion: The dark messiah it had long feared—the silencer of all people, things, and hopes—would be a human with red hair. The One, who would forevermore be known as “the Ruin,” had been prophesied as having blood on his head and blood on his hands. From that day onward, children born with red hair were detested, shunned, or, in the saddest cases like Angela’s, abused. It wasn’t until the Vatican established its island city off the coast of the American continent that those now termed “blood heads,” especially blood heads with supernatural prowess, seemed to find their place.

  Only in Luz were blood heads accepted and encouraged to discover what kind of powers or special abilities they might possess, even though sometimes it was hard to figure out whether the Vatican officials feared or admired that unique fourth of their student body. Were they protecting people like Angela? Or were they merely gathering them together like rats into a trap, ready to poison them once they’d found the Ruin they were looking for? This place was full of contradictions like that. From the first day Angela entered Luz, she’d been overwhelmed by its sense of backward elegance and almost topsy-turvy culture. While the supernatural was welcomed—though always under strict control—technology couldn’t survive. Electricity gave way to candlelight, modern building materials to stone, wood, and elaborate tile-work, most of it decaying beneath acid rain and neglect. From the coast where her parents’ house had burned to the ground, Angela would stare out at the ocean, gazing at the city that
sat like a lonely lump of crags, turrets, and oddly twisted spires, its iron support beams lashed by waves taller than trees. Luz was a city on stilts, its grandest buildings built on top of others, all of it looking ready to crash into the sea at any time.

  Luz, the city of lights. The Vatican’s wonder of the world that was now a world of its own. So many candles burned here that the Academy twinkled at night, covered in a million artificial stars.

  “Believe me,” Nina said, wagging a finger at her, “when you’re pretty, and different, and you’re the talk of the school, Stephanie takes notice.”

  “Why are we assuming that people think this about me?” Angela said, a crisper clip edging into her voice.

  “Is your brother really Brendan Mathers?”

  Angela slumped, her tone cooling to a hiss. “What does he have to do with it?”

  “So it is true.” Nina smirked. “Sorry, but I had to check you out. He and Stephanie are an item, you know. That alone makes you ripe for gossip.”

  “That’s impossible. He took vows.”

  Nina was laughing now. “Yeah. He did, didn’t he? But would that stop you if some red-headed succubus was throwing herself on your lap? He’s still human, after all.” She crumpled her chip bag and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt. “But prophecy or not, Stephanie’s a blood head with some real power. A witch. You’d be smart to stay on her good side. Hell, even the Academy faculty stay on her good side.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning, but I doubt she’s going to take any notice of me like you said. I’m not the only blood head entering the university this semester. Besides, Brendan probably wouldn’t have talked about me much. I’m more of an embarrassment than a real conversation point.”

  “That’s fine.” Nina stooped down to snatch up her bag. “Just don’t be too surprised when it happens.”

  “Where are you going?” Angela stood alongside of her, casually scanning the hallway for the novice with the pale skin.

  “Oh, just back to my dorm. I’ve got some reading to do before lights out. Thought I might steal a smoke in the bathroom on the way. Care to join me?”

  No. He mustn’t have been half as interested in her as he seemed. All thoughts of a forbidden romance aside, it would be nice to question someone about her brother. Learn where he lived and what classes he oversaw as a teacher’s aide. Hopefully, without this Stephanie finding out. Angela pushed the hair from her eyes, trying to peer through the crowd.

  “Hello?”

  A cigarette dangled in front of her face.

  “No thanks.” Angela swatted it away, still trying to see. A ripple was passing through the large bunches of people, the students pulling back from either side of the exhibits to let a band of blood heads pass through. There were ten of them, but the woman at their head was obviously the leader, her heeled boots clicking across the tile with measured precision. Her skirt was at least two inches too short, and she wore a black overcoat over her blouse, its breast pocket embroidered with a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. A pentacle. With every step, her thick ponytail swung side to side, shining beneath the wall sconces.

  She stopped for a second, whispering to one of her friends—another blood head with layered hair and thigh-high tights. Then they both caught sight of Angela and strolled toward her fast.

  “Shit.” Nina’s voice sounded like an ominous gong in Angela’s ear. “We’re done for.”

  Before anything more could be said, the ten students were ringing Angela’s exhibit, silent and oddly forbidding. The lights in the room began to flicker.

  “Well, hello,” the leader said to Nina.

  Nina kept her mouth shut.

  “So I guess you couldn’t stay away from an opportunity like this. Not that I blame you anymore. You see,” she said and smiled at Angela, “Nina here has a fascination with angels, demons, spirits. She even says she talks to them. In her sleep, or something.” The leader laughed gently. “She tends to gravitate toward new blood heads who don’t know any better, eventually wearing them down with a million useless, overly imaginative questions.” She glanced at Nina. “Right?”

  “Who are you?” Angela said, trying to ignore Nina’s strange silence. This had to be Stephanie. But it took more than a funny symbol on her coat to make her a witch. And right now, she couldn’t be more mediocre. “Why are you here?”

  “Why am I here?” She laughed again, some of her friends joining in. They all looked the same: heavy makeup and red eye shadow. More like bad mannequins than people. “I’m here to welcome you to Westwood, of course. I’m Stephanie Walsh, head of the Pentacle Sorority on the campus. I make it my personal responsibility to meet every new blood head who steps onto Academy grounds.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I’m not too keen on sororities. Or being recruited.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. But you might want to reconsider your opinion.”

  “Why is that?” Angela said, aware that her eyes were narrowing to slits. The girl with the thigh-high tights was poking at her favorite picture, tracing the line of the angel’s long neck with a finger.

  Stephanie nudged Tights sharply with an elbow, snapping her back into position. “Because you might find life to be a little easier here at the Academy when you have sisters to lean on. Otherwise, it can be hard.” She glanced at Nina, a frown twitching on her mouth. “You don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, acquainting yourself with people who don’t have your best interests at heart.”

  “So you’re saying that if I don’t join your sorority, I should prepare to be miserable?”

  “I’m only trying to help.” Stephanie stretched out a hand, and the blood head with the thigh-highs handed her a paper. She offered it to Angela. “If you change your mind, our house is in the Western District of the campus, close to the Tree. We have group nights every Tuesday and Thursday where we initiate new members if they decide to join.”

  “This Thursday is Halloween,” Nina said, muttering.

  Stephanie lifted an eyebrow. “So it is.”

  She turned and headed for the exit at the far end of the hallway, the other blood heads gathering behind her. Angela crumpled the paper, tossing it on the floor when they were out of view. “She’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to spend my college years handing her papers.”

  “Thank God.” Nina ruffled her hair, messing it even more. “I thought you were going to cave.”

  “Why would I have done that?”

  “So many people said the same thing. Until they met Stephanie face-to-face. The one in the thigh-high tights, Lyrica Pengold—she was stupid enough to spread rumors about her. Then her hair began falling out. Now she’s Stephanie’s most devoted slave and has hair that would make a shampoo commercial jealous.”

  Angela let the matter rest, keeping her thoughts to herself while she opened her portfolio case and began taking down the paintings, one by one. The exhibit had an hour to go yet, but she felt sick, and exhausted, and really didn’t want anything to do with people until tomorrow. She wasn’t used to so much attention, good or bad, and the strangeness of it all had left her in a daze. Almost forgetting that Nina was still present, she picked up her favorite picture—a gorgeous oil portrait that focused on the beautiful angel’s sapphire eyes—and snuck a kiss on the edge of the canvas.

  This was all for him anyway. Her last hope at finding a reason to live.

  “Hey, Angela, I’m going to go now.” Nina’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

  “Leaving so soon?” A male voice joined her. “And after I made the time to take a closer look at your exhibit.”

  Wonderful. More people.

  Angela slipped the last painting into its case and turned around with a fake smile at the ready. But then it became a real one. The novice with the pale skin and honey-colored eyes was standing across from her, his long coat swishing as he swayed slightly, stealing a quick peek before she zipped up the case. He was even more handsome up close, and a flattering shelf of bangs hung carel
essly in his eyes. It was a portion of these that he’d dyed such a shocking red.

  “They allow that—even though you’re a novice?” Angela nodded at his hair.

  “Not everyone in the Vatican is as backward as the authorities in Luz, Miss—what’s your name?”

  “Angela Mathers.”

  “Pretty. It suits your work.”

  Nina had been a step away from leaving again. Now she sat back down and busied herself with a book, glancing at the novice whenever he wasn’t looking.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re packing up for the night.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem. I wasn’t intending to leave so soon; I just . . .” Angela sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Would you like me to help you back to your room? I’m also heading in that direction.”

  Nina was trying harder than ever not to appear engrossed with the conversation. But she was also turning the book’s pages much too quickly.

  “No, that’s all right.” Besides, didn’t it occur to him that it might not be a good idea to be seen alone with her? Angela felt her cheeks starting to go red. She’d planned on asking him about Brendan, but now the thought of how and why was the furthest thing from her mind. It would be great to have a meaningful relationship with a person who either wasn’t part of her dreams, or hadn’t taken a vow of celibacy. But dating a priest in training certainly wouldn’t start things off on the right foot. “Thanks for offering though. Maybe next time.”

  “Of course. Maybe next time.” He wandered away from the exhibit, gradually vanishing into the crowd.

  The instant he was out of sight, Nina tossed her book aside and grabbed Angela’s arm. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Should I?” Angela blinked, partially blinded by a nearby flash of lightning.