Archon

by Benulis, Sabrina

  The vision was familiar and yet terribly alien, as Tileaf had warned, and Angela found relief again only when the scene changed to that of the Destroyer Supernal, gazing down at the blood she had so wantonly spilled. Completely unsympathetic . . .

  Utterly vanquished inside.

  “It was the Celestial Revolution. The chicks—it was long said—had been torn from Lucifel’s body and aborted, and rather than suffer any more punishment or humiliation, she’d summoned the cult that worshipped her to rebellion. An infamous rebellion . . . and also the beginning of Raziel’s final hours. The battle was reaching its climax when he crossed the bridge to Ialdaboth, the highest dimension of Heaven, to speak with God, presumably about an end to what Raziel termed a useless battle . . .

  The verdict must have driven him mad . . .”

  Now, a scene of almost unimaginable bloodshed.

  Angels tearing down other angels with energy and ether and weapons that glittered like crystal but cut with the cruelty of ice. They tumbled and screamed in agony, feathers falling throughout Heaven like snow, and behind them, plummeting from a bridge that rose to the spire of the material universe, its gables made of pearlescent glass—Raziel, his face blank with terror and pain.

  His wings were shredded. They were no more than rags spewing blood.

  And that meant the end.

  It was over, as if someone had flipped a switch, as every combatant paused to watch one of the Supernals die . . .

  It was over.

  “Lucifel had lost the war. And Raziel, it was commonly agreed, had committed suicide rather than subject himself to the punishment of God . . .”

  Darkness came over all of Heaven. Lucifel and her flock of dissenters, descending like a living smoke, down and down and down . . .

  “For with her lover dead and the war decided, she fled to Hell . . . piercing it all the way to the Abyss, where the demonic regime continues to this very day. Her name is hateful to the angels, and every one of her supporters, including Raziel, shares that legacy. All his belongings and writings were destroyed, and among them was his greatest work—”

  The Book of Raziel.

  Reality shifted and Angela was suddenly out of Tileaf’s memories, standing in a space where she could walk, talk, and breathe, her consciousness now separated from the Fae’s by a renewed sense of individuality. In this place, she had will and sensation, but for a short time, the strangeness of what she had just seen, that sense of the alien, curled her into a ball of terror and pain. She merely lay there, in the blackness that was enough to give her existence, seeing nothing but Lucifel’s face and Israfel’s beauty, and the immense starlit perfection of Heaven spattered with their red blood.

  She was a grain of dust before all of it. Ignorant and terrifyingly weak.

  The shock refused to leave her, the terror would never end, this hell would never end—

  And then, it was lying next to her. A book made of pure sapphire, its cover emblazoned with an Eye that nearly matched the Grail around her neck in size. But this Eye was gray in color, more sad than terrible, and without thinking, Angela stretched out a hand and brushed it with her fingertips, causing the eyelid to shut.

  “Yes,” Tileaf’s voice continued like a whisper, “there are rumors that the Book still exists. That it was not destroyed, as was commonly thought, but, that of its own free will it followed Lucifel . . . to Hell.”

  Angela leaned closer, trying to pick up the Book. But the sapphire was far too heavy, leaving her with the option of opening the cover or walking away.

  She touched it, rubbing her hand across the blue rock.

  It had a heartbeat. It was alive.

  “Do not be fooled. What you are seeing is only a representation, a symbol, of the Book passed down in legend and myth . . . There are perhaps none living besides Lucifel herself who have seen its true form. And, of course, opening it is impossible.

  “Those who try to do so, but do not possess even one of the Supernals’ spirits, are stricken with insanity.

  “Besides . . . the Key and its Lock have yet to be found . . .”

  The Book vanished, curls of blue ether wrapping around Angela’s fingers before disappearing. Light illuminated the darkness, and she rocked back to her feet, still standing on a void that seemed solid as real earth but glassy smooth. Perhaps this was the foundation of Tileaf’s mind, firm despite so much torture. Angela stared out into the space she’d been granted on it, and a wind sighed from the nothingness, blowing through her hair, full of voices that sounded like a million souls speaking at once. Beseeching her.

  The light continued to brighten.

  “The Archon, known mistakenly to humankind as the Ruin, is said to be the reincarnation of Raziel’s soul. The Supernal’s Book, which contains both a power and a knowledge beyond the comprehension of most creatures, must be opened, and only by Her, because with Israfel vanished into the highest reaches of Heaven, there is no other able or willing to do so without suffering severe consequences.

  “Lucifel is not an option . . .”

  There was a sun peeping over the unnameable horizon, but it gave off a sallow glow that barely revealed the rifts and valleys of Tileaf’s mind. Angela now stood on a cliff with a jagged edge, her boots scraping it precariously, and within the barren valley below her, human beings stood in rows of silence, their souls gray as the sun was gray, looking up at her with a sense of need and longing. Angela gazed out at them, overcome by their numbers, their misery.

  “Even the dead are aware of the looming threat of the Great Satan. Lucifel, she who was prophesied as the one who would confront God in order to become a god herself, is now crazed to the point of utter darkness. Seeking to open the Book of Raziel, she would only use its power to end the universe she believes has wronged her . . . and her cult, which makes up half of Hell, wishes for the fulfillment of her ideals.

  “The omens are there, and her most fanatical believers now move to assist her . . . to open her cage . . .”

  Storm clouds gathered in the far distance, echoes of Tileaf’s pain and her warning. Lightning sliced the sky like a pitchfork of crimson.

  “For there is only one Archon . . . but there are two who can be the Ruin.”

  The clouds boiled, saturating the atmosphere with a new and painful blackness, taking the life that remained to the souls below her and turning their spirit bodies to ash. A violent wind gusted through the valley, and their symbolic selves dissipated, disintegrating in the new breeze blowing through Tileaf’s mind. Little by little, the terrible image stripped away into tatters, tearing off to reveal the same space where the Book had lain next to Angela, alone.

  But now Tileaf stood before her, beautiful and untouched by the priests’ greed.

  Her lovely face held the bleakest expression, and she stepped softly toward Angela, holding out her hand.

  She didn’t have to ask.

  Angela slipped the chain over her neck and handed her the Grail, now more an Eye than a stone. Green, and horribly alive.

  “This,” Tileaf said, cradling the Grail in her palm, “must never find its way back to Lucifel. Whether or not it was a lover’s gift, Raziel eventually gave it to the Jinn, and thus to the true Archon, for a reason, and once it finds Her hands, it must never leave them. It is cursed, certainly, but also important, though only he might have known why or how . . .”

  Angela nodded, accepting the Eye as it was passed back to her.

  “If you yourself are the Archon, when the time comes to use the Grail, remember that it cannot be handled without consequences.”

  “And what about Israfel?”

  Angela’s heart ached, almost to the point where she could cry. Seeing her beautiful angel so clearly, she’d wanted him more than ever, and more than ever, the possibility seemed nonexistent. The danger was obvious. If she didn’t ignore this corner of her heart, the thirst would eventually kill her on its own. Israfel took up her world; he always had. Only for a few days had someone stood before or be
side him in the space of her affections. Kim had enough pleasure to offer, enough beauty and charm, but could a relationship built on danger last? Besides, if Angela proved to be nothing more than what so many had suspected—insane—then he’d kill her.

  How alone she was. Unable to trust even her own feelings.

  “Israfel . . .” Tileaf sighed deeply. “As I said, he vanished into the highest dimensions of Heaven. Raziel’s death affected him powerfully. And no one has seen him since that fateful day. He may no longer even be alive.”

  That couldn’t be. It simply could not. Besides, Mikel had said he was alive.

  Though she could have been lying from the start.

  “How can I find him? I was hoping that maybe I could summon him to Earth like other angels, but—”

  “No.” The Fae’s voice hardened. “He is a Supernal. They are angels. But they are also on a much higher plane of existence. Israfel is not the type of being who entertains demands.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “You can hope. It is what we’ve all been doing since Raziel died and took most of what little hope remained with him . . .”

  “And that’s all?”

  Tileaf lifted her hand, thrusting with it as if she were pushing Angela away. They began to separate with the same slow intensity with which they’d first come together, and a grim knowledge entered into Angela’s awareness. This was the last time she and Tileaf would speak on equal terms. The next instance they’d encounter each other, Angela would have to be the Archon to survive it, and she would have to keep her promise and kill someone who otherwise wished her dead.

  “Yes,” Tileaf said, sounding more resigned than ever. “That’s all.”

  Twenty-two

  His voice is unlike any other. A music that torments the soul.

  —UNKNOWN AUTHOR, A Collection of Angelic Lore

  Were you there in the Garden of Shadows?

  Were you near when the Father took wing?

  Did you sigh when the starlight outpoured us?

  When the silver bright water could sing . . .

  Angela rolled over onto her side, sighing, trying to wake up, though her brain was crawling from sleep with infuriating sluggishness. Someone was singing to her, such a haunting, incredible song. She recognized this voice—she’d heard this melody before . . .

  Have you drunk from a river of amber?

  Or eaten the nectar of dreams,

  Where thoughts linger determining eons,

  And time stretches apart at the seams . . .

  Who? Who was this?

  The voice was like pure birdsong and the gentle ring of a chime, yet with all the force of a rushing tidal wave. Angela moaned out loud, half awake, turning aside in a mound of what felt like dead leaves. They crackled underneath her, her back hit an iron-hard root—and her eyes popped open, revealing the unearthly decay of Tileaf’s grotto.

  She sat up, groggy and unusually tired.

  Kim lay beside her, his arm flopped across her skirt. He looked so different, fast asleep like this. Innocent, his hair thrown back from his face and neck, completely unlike the cold, professional persona he projected, his lips gently parting as he breathed and mumbled what sounded like Latin. Troy, though, was gone, perhaps because dawn was almost upon them. She’d either escaped deep into the undergrowth or had left entirely, unwilling to watch over the two people she hated most as they curled beside each other.

  Luckily for Kim, she also must have had an aversion to murdering anyone unconscious. Jinn must have had the morality peculiar to hunters. Twisted morals, but still, morals.

  Thump.

  What was that?

  Angela turned around, her heart pounding.

  A branch had fallen from Tileaf’s tree into the dirt. She too was gone, silent, back to dying alone—just as she seemed to prefer it.

  Now the coffin of spirits awaits us.

  Now the sliver of life it escapes us . . .

  “Hello?” Angela stood up and crunched through the leaves, stepping over another large root. She was still wobbly and tired and her head felt foggy. It was hard to see, though that was thankfully improving. The trees caged the entire grotto in darkness, but between their black limbs the slate-colored sky was appearing in the early morning light. And it was an uncommonly pallid and dirty light. Clouds scudded by with the wind, their tufts boiling with a menace peculiar to Luz, threatening another deadly storm. Strangely enough, it had only been last night when Angela, Nina, and Kim—when they’d survived lightning bolts, and rain that could cut into your skin. “Hello?” she whispered.

  Nothing. Just the scraping of twigs and leaves.

  It’s in my head. The voice is in my head. No one else can hear it.

  Kim continued to sleep, rolling over and resting his arm against his forehead. If the voice truly came from an outside source, it was certainly loud enough to have awakened him by now.

  If we tarry in this place.

  If we take not the chance to taste . . .

  Whoever was singing, was calling her.

  Angela left Kim behind, slowly walking through the same tunnel of foliage that had led her to Tileaf and a thousand dreadful images, most of which lingered in her mind. Her boots crackled through leaves and dry twigs, splashed through mud, and tapped against old stone. The weeds on either side of the path shivered, as if saying farewell; Angela patted the Grail resting in its cold lump beneath her blouse and slipped her fingers through a space between the buttons, stroking its smooth surface. Without warning, it struck her—perhaps Angela had never heard this song or this voice before. Perhaps it had been tailor-made to seduce her. As if whoever was singing knew exactly what she wanted to hear, offering it to her along with all her dreams and hopes, if she would simply—

  Come to me.

  Bushes rustled nearby.

  Angela froze, frightened, then relaxed in relief.

  Revealed by the moving bushes, Nina shifted her sleeping position against a tree trunk. Her blouse had been torn by a patch of thorns. Otherwise, she looked too peaceful for someone possessed. But if Angela tried to wake her up, she might only end up speaking to Mikel.

  Angela shuffled past her, slowly following the path out of the park and up to the immense wrought-iron gate. As always, the return journey seemed shorter than the arrival, and she stepped out onto the cobblestones tentatively, like someone might catch her, hear her, and force the trees to snag her back inside.

  Now where do I go?

  A long wet street escaped into the fog ahead, and on either side stretched the avenues and tunnels Kim had used to get them to the Park in the first place.

  Instead, Angela chose the route the song—or her heart—suggested. A narrow alley directly to her left. The verses repeated themselves, throbbing inside of her like a heartbeat, and soon she was obeying, entering the most dilapidated section of the Academy’s Western District, its buildings more like vacant shacks hoisted too tightly against one another. A rat skittered across the street and over her boot.

  Come to me.

  Luz passed her by, little more than a blur of black and gray.

  Grates that covered the ocean began to line both sides of the street, water churning beneath them, frothy and ice cold. But the melody pounding through her head drowned out both the sea and the threat of its unusually high waves, their tips licking the grate’s lower edges. And somehow, she knew where to go, despite distractions, despite guilt—

  You were there in the Garden of Shadows.

  You were there when the Father took wing.

  And my words will remind you of pleasure . . .

  She paused, backpedaling to a stone church, its perimeter surrounded by barbed wire. Whoever owned the incredible voice was inside the building, waiting, and the instinct carried her like a dream, one foot after the other pushing her up the stairs, and then hand by hand over the fence and the barbs that tore into her skirt and her tights. The Vatican had closed off this church to the public and to students for goo
d, for forever, perhaps because it stood too near Tileaf’s tree, and so, too close to secrets. Time and acid rain had both done their share, and once-impressive stone reliefs had been worn away to featureless lumps. Most of the stained-glass windows had been cracked or shattered, and the wooden doors had warped from constant rain. Locked or unlocked, a hard push would snap them open, but Angela tried the handles anyway.

  Cool, tarnished brass met her hand.

  She turned her wrist.

  The door gave way, creaking open.

  And imprison your soul in a ring.

  Gray haze veiled the altar.

  Numerous puddles surrounded the pews like moats, reflecting the brick of the nearest towers in a collage of brown and russet. Ragged holes had been torn in the walls near the ceiling, leaving most of the floor naked to the rain, but Angela followed the central aisle, picking her away around the water, wondering at the moldy tapestries and the stench of mildew. Then the mist receded, revealing one window still intact. Angela stopped to examine the stained glass, dulled beneath its film of grime. Its image was barely discernible: an angel handing a lily to a frightened young woman.

  “She carried a treasure in her body.”

  A soft voice. A real voice. Just like the one that had been singing to her.

  “That’s the legend, or so I’ve heard . . .”

  The pitch sounded gentle but too deep to be female. She forced herself to turn around, heart working overtime, everything seeming to happen in slow motion, as if time were in the very process of freezing—