Archon

by Benulis, Sabrina

  To come face-to-face with absolute Beauty.

  She could only stare, drinking in the ivory of his skin, the pink of his lips; losing herself in his lined, sea blue eyes, so large and so bright. Even his star-white hair seemed to shine, dispersing the gloom with an ethereal brilliance, with the scarlet ribbons woven through the tresses near his shoulders and graceful neck. His perfection was overwhelming, staggering. It erased the memory of Kim’s face in an instant. It made Tileaf look like an ugly duckling desperate to be a swan.

  This was Israfel. Her beautiful, beautiful angel.

  But he was no longer a dream or a vision or a memory. He was now a solid, flesh-and-blood reality, standing in front of her, his embroidered coat dazzling her eyes with its silver thread, his own shock looking supremely out of place. Israfel backed away from her, actually seeming afraid. His smile hardened the same as in her dreams, whenever he was upset. “You—”

  His voice cut off.

  Perfect. It’s perfect even when he isn’t singing.

  Neither of them moved.

  “You,” he said the words reluctantly, as if she’d pulled them out of his mouth herself, “you look like the—”

  Like what? Like Raziel?

  She shouldn’t let him touch her—not yet—but he was already doing so, fascinated like she was fascinated, losing all his caution to melt any trace of fear with his slim fingers. The longing inside of her grew like a living thing, threatening to burst out in all the wrong ways. How many times had she kissed his portrait, painted another picture, or sketched a scene from one of those ephemeral dreams, aching and sighing and pining away inside? How many scars had she inflicted on herself in the insane suicide attempts, all so that she could rest in the circle of his bronze wings?

  They had yet to appear, though. Even more troubling, his hair and eyebrows were pearlescent white, not the bronze she’d seen in Tileaf’s memories and her own detailed visions. But his face, his slender figure, his graceful movements, even the soul gazing back at her through those languid blue irises—those were all the same.

  It wasn’t until he leaned in closer, and the soft light from the towers grazed his features again, that she saw how heavily the kohl circled his eyes. How thickly he’d painted his eyelashes a deep shade of black.

  Their roots were white as his hair.

  “You heard my song,” he whispered to her.

  “Yes.” Anything she said sounded foolish compared to the way he spoke.

  “Is it you? Have you come back to me?”

  He means Raziel.

  “I don’t know.” That sounded even stupider.

  But more than anything she wanted it to be the truth. When he cupped her face and drew her in close, she gave in with a delicate sigh, returning the pressure of his soft, insistent mouth, overwhelmed by a warmth that burned every other thought away. She sensed him testing her, tasting the deepest part of her soul and liking what he found, whether or not it was what he truly wanted. So much emotion, so fast. Insanity. Danger. This angel, a creature of such power, could crack her spine with a snap of his fingers, and yet Angela had fallen into his embrace brainless and lovesick, an idiot without equal, just like she had imagined over and over and over again. Kim’s face reappeared in the depths of her mind, protesting, but then he sank back into an abyss where she could no longer see him.

  There would be no salvation. Because these feelings began somewhere else, long, long ago.

  They broke apart, and Israfel licked his lips, as if still savoring the taste of her.

  He stroked her hair, running its blood-red strands through his fingers, just as Kim had done. How right this felt, though. So impossibly right, yet in a way so different from the rightness Kim made her feel. He’d been passionate enough for her, but the sensation was ultimately far from the same.

  “But how did you find me . . .” Angela gazed at him adoringly, unable to help herself. “How long have you been singing?”

  Israfel smiled, and for the second time, sunshine seemed to break over Luz. But just as quickly a strange coldness came over him, and he let her go, and that sunshine turned to a ray that could burn whatever displeased him. Painfully, it became clear to Angela that her worst fears had been realized: her humanity was a factor almost too lowly for Israfel to consider. That made his next comment hurt all the more.

  “You are not Raziel.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your taste,” and he looked so achingly hungry when he said it, “is entirely different.”

  “I’m a different person.”

  No one ever seemed to bother considering that. Well, now that she had her angel in the flesh, she was going to make him consider it. Anything to keep him from flying out of Angela’s life and back to Heaven, where it might take forever to reach him. For a second, the Grail beneath her blouse felt heavier, tempting her to bring it out into the open, to show him that she possessed something only the Archon could hold without eventually suffering for it. But the little voice in the back of her head cautioned against it, and for once, Angela listened. So much could go sour if she said or did the wrong thing.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Israfel said. “You are a different person.” He examined her further, but with a tact Troy was too savage to possess. How could any angel evolve into a Jinn? Hell must be more terrible than Angela had imagined. “So am I. For some reason,” he said, caressing her cheek, “I haven’t killed you yet.”

  I take it back.

  “You are not him,” Israfel continued, gentle, “and it would be unwise to let you live now that you’ve seen me. That is—unless you are willing to pay the price.” His body swayed, like a slender lily, and the answer was of course, yes, absolutely. Though he might have been a Supernal, Israfel suddenly appeared so delicate and broken, he might crack asunder if Angela didn’t protect him. “Because all happiness,” he said softly, “has a price.”

  Words meant nothing at this point.

  She clasped his gloved fingers, noting how he held his palm facing up—not down like most humans when they formally extended a hand.

  “You choose wisely.” He shook from her grip, biting his lip. “For the short time you have left, you will be content, I’m sure.” His expression softened, lovely once more. “But, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave and do a favor for a plaything of mine. He’s paid handsomely for my service, and it would be rude to disappoint him, don’t you think?”

  That teasing smile. But he sounds more like he’s going to punish this person rather than help them. I should have known. I should remember. Tileaf warned me without saying anything—angels don’t think like us.

  “Where are you going?”

  As if she could follow or stop him.

  Israfel laughed, his voice like a bell. “To a feast for God’s underappreciated servants. Apparently, it’s being held in a church on the Academy grounds you attend.” He glanced at her skirt, her blouse, the dirt and holes in both of them, noting her utter filthiness. “You might want to come. It will be a rather interesting morning for everyone.”

  Wind gusted. A flurry of feathers hid his beauty.

  Down puffed against Angela’s cheeks and tumbled like snow to the floor.

  Israfel had finally opened his wings, but they shone with a damp film, like water had been sprayed on them when she wasn’t looking. There were four of them, two that resembled thick but expansive mats of down smothered in stiffer feathers, and another thinner pair, settled between them and trailing onto the floor. Considering his size, they were slender, elegant, and unable to carry even half of Israfel’s weight. She reached out to touch those pinions, to imprison herself inside of their walls of white and never escape.

  He stretched them, flapping, rolling a furious breeze throughout the church, and then he was soaring up through the largest hole in the roof, like his body was made of air rather than flesh. Angela watched him leave without a sound, amazed to see that he was already a white speck fading into the mist and the clouds.

 
Mine. You’re mine. And I’ll make sure it stays that way. This dream—if it is a dream—can’t end.

  No. This wasn’t a dream. She’d given them all away.

  What was happening to her? Inside, she felt a terrible possessiveness. Something that scared her almost more than Naamah, Troy, and the thought of possibly battling the Devil herself.

  It’s like I’m starving, and the whole world isn’t enough.

  Angela clutched her head, still groggy and suddenly sick to her stomach. The shock that had burned between her and her angel, Tileaf’s Creator Supernal, the Devil’s own brother, Heaven’s highest angel, was fading and her thoughts raced and her body weakened all over. She trembled, running fingers through the hair tangled near her neck, glancing around wildly at the church and its decay, like she could bring him back or make him even more real than he was. But why had he changed so drastically from what she’d seen in her visions, in Tileaf’s memories?

  He was now white as snow—and yet dark. Like he’d painted over his soul as much as his eyelashes.

  A plaything, he’d said. That didn’t sound right. Who could it be, anyway?

  Israfel had been referring to the All Saints’ Day feast, scheduled for late morning at the same cathedral where she’d spoken to Kim. All the university grades would be there, celebrating Mass with at least one hundred priests and novices, and worst of all, Stephanie Walsh.

  As head of one of the Academy’s sorority houses, she would be expected to show her face—if she was still alive. And if she was alive, Stephanie had definitely been planning some kind of evil in the hours that passed. Maybe she’d even murdered Sophia out of spite.

  Sophia.

  I almost forgot all about her.

  If she started running, Angela could make it in time for the homily. So without a second thought, she spun on her heel and dashed out of the church, clutching at the Grail like it was her heart.

  The real one might never stop racing.

  Twenty-three

  What is this hope but a dead Bird’s dream?

  Where is the truth of the Ruin foreseen?

  —CARDINAL DEMIAN YATES, Translations of the Prophecy

  “That rotten little rat,” Naamah muttered between her teeth. “I’ll slice her in half. I’ll make her blood rain all over this hell of a city.”

  She ripped her wrist away from Stephanie, causing them both to flinch.

  “Let me do this, or it will get even more infected,” Stephanie said, grabbing for it again, her eyes tearing up pathetically. This was the first time she’d ever seen her adoptive mother injured, and the sight made her sick inside, overwhelmingly angry. That horrific creature—it could only have been the Jinn—had done this. The lightning bolt that hit the Bell Tower had knocked Stephanie unconscious for a short time, but not before she’d seen a living shadow streak in Naamah’s direction. The unnamed menace had been lurking in the chapel all along, waiting and watching, just in time for Naamah to show herself and make a move.

  “Why didn’t you kill her sooner?” Stephanie hissed, trembling. “Then they would both be dead.”

  Naamah’s blood slicked her hands like oil. She slopped old bandages onto the floor and fully exposed the wound, terrible with its torn flesh and underlying bone. Naamah cursed under her breath, her alien words giving neither of them any comfort while she pushed Stephanie aside to lick the injury.

  “It will heal in time,” the demon whispered. “Don’t worry about that annoying rat. I’ll make certain she and her vermin relatives pay for this soon—”

  “How did she even get close enough?” Stephanie lifted the candle higher, illuminating the sharp beauty of Naamah’s face. Her mother’s copper skin took on a burnt shade of red in the darkness, fascinating, but only reminding her of more blood and more death. Lyrica stood behind her, pale and silent, so frightened by their closeness she seemed more a statue than a person. She glanced at Stephanie, wide-eyed and terrified, probably still seeing Maribel’s death over and over again, her grasp on sanity lessening the more her palms curled around the clean bandages in her hand. “I thought you can use ether to bring them down,” Stephanie said, wiping away more tears with a fist. When she yelled, it sounded more desperate than angry. “How did she hide in that room without us knowing?”

  “Because she’s the High Assassin,” Naamah snapped.

  A door slammed shut.

  Lyrica had locked herself in the bathroom. In seconds, she began to throw up, her gasps like shuddering cries for help.

  Stephanie’s room was almost pitch-black, but the candle gave off a meager light that sharpened every object. Anything was now a menace. The chandelier, the half-open wardrobe, the curtains that hung so still in the heavy air. The Jinn could be hiding behind blankets and bookshelves, dressers and unlocked doors.

  Naamah shrugged off a suspicious noise near the window, sucking more blood from her wrist until it was dry enough to rewrap. Stephanie helped her, unable to think properly, her mind lost in a faraway void until Naamah spoke again.

  “She’s a rat who climbed up the Jinn hierarchy by murdering and murdering well. The Jinn Queen’s sister, or so I’ve been told. Dangerous and highly skilled, an expert at ambush attacks. We met once before—in my younger days—and I suffered well enough for my lack of caution. She tore a bone from my wing. Not enough to kill, of course, but enough to protect herself from me in the future.” The demon shook a hand through her hair, tugging at her braids. “Scrawny bitch.”

  “I warned you.” An overly gentle voice spoke.

  She stepped into the light, hands folded calmly, her face completely expressionless. Sophia’s hair was still wet from the rain, twisted in frizzy ringlets below her shoulders. But the emptiness behind her eyes was back, worse than ever, and of all inhuman things, it was the horror Stephanie feared most of all.

  “I warned you about overstepping your bounds,” she was saying. “And now look where it’s getting you. If you don’t stop before it’s too—”

  “Shut your damn mouth.” Stephanie turned on her, screaming.

  Sophia’s face blanked.

  There was a long and awkward silence.

  “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Naamah blocked her from view, holding Stephanie by the shoulders. The demon’s hands wrapped into her skin like steel clamps. “Why are you shivering?”

  “I’m shivering?” Stephanie whispered. She looked down at her body, all her limbs vibrating, her knees knocking together. “It’s so cold in here,” she said, her voice echoing from a distance.

  Naamah spoke to Sophia, more alien words.

  The girl stared at Stephanie, a morbid look on her face, but obeyed with a silent huff and stepped out of the room. When she reappeared, she held two more candles, their flames like tiny spots of light in the deep and miserable gloom. But the room didn’t brighten for Stephanie, not even a shade. Instead, her vision swirled, and she cradled her head in her hands, hoping she wouldn’t end up like Lyrica, vomiting on her knees.

  The world felt like it was collapsing, unhinging beneath her feet. Sensation ceased.

  A greater darkness loomed before her, and she glanced up, astonished to see that Sophia gazed back, the same punishing expression on her face.

  Naamah was gone, the bathroom silent.

  Near her bed, the clock chimed out the hour. Eight in the morning. Strangely, an hour had passed without her even noticing.

  “Did I fall asleep?” Stephanie said, glancing furtively around the bedroom.

  Sophia continued to stand in front of her, still and silent.

  “Where is Naamah?”

  No response.

  “The demon. My mother—”

  “Is waiting to meet you at St. Mary’s,” Sophia said, her voice little more than a breath of air. Another clock chimed in a lower room, the sound somehow jarring. As illogical as the sudden leap in time. “Today is the All Saints’ Day feast, Stephanie. You wouldn’t want to miss it. I’m sure you have a
ll kinds of . . . plans.”

  Stephanie stood up, her knees still weak, and shambled over to the mirror to rearrange her hair, closing her eyes and opening them to a brighter room. Of course. She must have imagined all the darkness. All of those gray and black shadows. Now, her room appeared more normal, and a million times less ominous, even cheerful with its white crown molding and royal purple curtains. Sophia was just a harmless doll standing in a much more harmless doll house. Her fingers, though, were bloody. Probably from the pentagrams in the chapel.

  There had been so many.

  “Not that I blame you. I’d be nervous too.”

  The tone in her voice was alarming.

  Stephanie turned around, finding her old sense of confidence the more Sophia revealed herself; mousy, waiflike, and ignorant. How could she be so afraid of her? What she mistook for an unworldly horror was really just Sophia’s empty mind shining through. Surely there had to be consequences when you brought the dead back to life, especially more than once. Every time it happened, more and more of Sophia’s brain probably disintegrated.

  “It seems like everyone has friendly advice for me lately.” Stephanie picked up her overcoat from the bed, slipping it over her shoulders. “If you want to help, you can start by telling me what happened to Angela Mathers after the ceremony.” Stephanie spun on her heel. “She was with Kim, right?”

  Sophia turned aside, visibly holding something back.

  “I guess that’s one thing you and I have in common. We both don’t want them together. Though—not for the same reasons, of course. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you stare at her when she isn’t looking?”

  “Stephanie, this is the only instance you and I will speak as equals. Now listen to me for once. You need to stop this, while there’s still a chance for you to turn back. Has Naamah told you about the Supernals?”

  “Of course she has.” Stephanie regarded her carefully.

  “Then you know the danger that you’re in.”

  “Raziel’s dead,” Stephanie said, welcoming the certainty of it. “And he’s inside of me. That’s one bird down. Lucifel’s not a threat either.”