Archon

by Benulis, Sabrina

  Sophia’s all right. But that could change in a minute. I’ve got to get her out of here.

  The organ music stopped, its echo resounding against the walls of the church. Slowly, the head priest of the Academy raised his hands, motioning for complete silence. Students who had been chattering while the music continued now stopped to listen, very few paying any more attention to Angela.

  Lyrica, though, trembled. She leaned over and muttered to a sorority member on her right. Instantly, the message began to relay farther up the ranks, heading inexorably for Stephanie Walsh and the demon standing with her.

  Shit.

  “I want to thank everyone,” the priest proclaimed, his voice booming all the way back into the eaves, “who was involved in last night’s relief efforts at the lower levels of the Academy. Those who opened their dormitories to shelter students now without possessions, and those who assisted in the brave task of bringing the deceased out of the waters, and into a place where their bodies could be prepared for burial. Despite the intense wind and waves, by the blessing of God, we suffered very few casualties. Three students, two from overseas, and one whom we will greatly mourn, our resident valedictorian, Maribel Heins—”

  Some of the students gasped, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

  “—we will be having a funeral Mass for them tomorrow at eight in the morning. All students are asked to attend and pray for the souls of their departed brothers and sisters.”

  Stephanie turned her head, glancing at Angela.

  Then she turned around, an upsetting smile on her lips.

  Angela patted the Grail beneath her blouse, wishing Troy still carried it after all. That way, it would be eternally impossible for Stephanie to see or get her hands on it, and that was assuming she could without breaking under its gaze. But she could look into the eyes of a demon without being intimidated—that had to count for something. If she and Naamah had been making plans over the long night, then it was lost on everyone around her, a testament to how well Stephanie could squash her emotions when she felt like it.

  When her name was announced by the priest, she barely reacted.

  “—and so, as head of the sorority that claimed Maribel as a member, Stephanie Walsh will now address the student body in her stead before we formally begin the Mass—”

  Stephanie slipped out of her pew and walked up to the podium where the priest had been standing, her skirt swishing around her hips. She was probably the only person at the Academy who could get away with attending Mass in a soft-porn school-girl uniform. Then, in a gesture of astounding disrespect, she took her maroon hair out of its ponytail, regathered it, and slouched against the podium, staring out at the students arranged in front of her. “Students of Westwood Academy, of the University,” she said slowly. “I’m sorry to say that one of the dearest sisters in our sorority died last night—though not in the way you’ve been led to believe.”

  Oh, God. This is going to be bad. I know it.

  The novices lined behind her murmured back and forth.

  Some of the priests went white in the face. Rain lashed the windows of the cathedral, beginning a hammering downpour.

  “I’m sure everyone knows by now about the serial killer in Luz. I’m sure you’ve been wondering what kind of person could commit such horrible crimes. He’s probably disturbed, emotionless. Someone with a history of violence against himself and others.”

  She paused dramatically, everyone else pausing with her.

  “I saw Maribel’s death firsthand—”

  Liar. What’s she doing . . .

  “—and I’m afraid to tell you, there’s a demon loose in the city.”

  Angela expected laughter, incredulous snorting. Instead, panic shivered through the entire university population, edging some of the students out of their seats and into the aisle. They stopped abruptly as the doors slammed shut, the locks clicking into place. A few spun around, startled by the noise, by the priest’s aghast expressions.

  This was Luz, and Stephanie was a witch. Anything could happen now.

  Angela glanced at Naamah, immediately suspicious.

  The demon lowered her hand, smiling cruelly.

  “Miss Walsh—” the presiding priest snapped at her from across the altar. The church became worryingly dark again, candles sputtering out, leaving only those on the altar table bright and wavering. “Miss Walsh—”

  “But every demon summoned to Earth needs a master,” Stephanie said louder. She left the podium, marching across the stone, giving her audience a smile meant for Angela more than anyone else. They stared at each other, and Angela made sure her eyes never left Stephanie’s, no matter how much it hurt her to look her in the face.

  Why, though, did it hurt?

  She’s different. Something’s changed since last night.

  One more mystery among many. Even worse, Israfel still hadn’t shown himself. Maybe he’d seen Naamah standing there. Maybe he’d rethought helping his plaything on such a soggy morning. Either way, for now, it looked like Angela had no one to rely on but herself.

  “Angela Mathers,” Stephanie said, pointing at her, making hundreds of heads whip around, horrified. The student next to Angela backed away like she had the plague. “She tried to join my sorority by summoning a fallen angel to this Academy. It killed Maribel—”

  Resounding gasps of horror.

  Stephanie lost her smile. “—and escaped into the city during the height of the storm.”

  “Shut her up,” the priest snapped at those to his left and right, gesturing for them to drag her off the altar. “She’s gone completely mad. The last thing we need—shut her up,” his voice thundered, mixing with the thunder outside.

  Stephanie spun around, her hair swinging like a rope. “Not so fast.”

  Her voice was so forceful, everyone froze, hypnotized.

  The priest gazed at her with real fear.

  “We’re just getting started.”

  She looked to Naamah.

  The demon waved her dark hand, forcing the church into almost utter blackness. Students screamed, some dashing toward the doors, only to find them locked. Others sat in a shocked and dead silent horror, unable to do a thing as the novices backed away from Stephanie, afraid of what else could go wrong if they touched her.

  Angela alone remained standing.

  Stephanie marched up to her, refined and polite. “That was a pretty good stunt you pulled last night,” she said, whispering. “But I don’t quite feel like playing games anymore. How acquainted are you with Hell, Angela? You’re going to be visiting soon, I think.”

  Statues loomed overhead. The stained glass glazed over beneath Naamah’s bloody light.

  Angela almost felt like a prophet. “You’ll visit long before I do.”

  “You’re not the Archon, Angela Mathers.”

  Stephanie’s eyes were strangely piercing, her words so certain, so confident, Angela almost agreed. Which might have explained why her answer surprised them both.

  “We’ll see.”

  Stephanie turned away, her heeled boots clacking imperiously against the tiles. She walked nearer to the priest in charge of the Mass, his white face matching his hair.

  No one moved to obey him, too afraid of what Stephanie could do.

  “Archbishop Solomon,” she said, meeting him eye to eye. “Considering the circumstances, I think we should both agree that our deal is officially null and void. I’m going to have to take over from here.”

  “You,” the priest hissed, sounding distinctly furious, “have had more than enough freedom to act at this Academy, Miss Walsh. But that freedom ends today. The moment you step out of this church, you are expelled from the school—and”—he glared pointedly at the pentacle on her overcoat—“excommunicated.”

  She’s bolder than before. It must have to do with Naamah. She’s growing too certain of that demon’s power backing her up.

  “Excommunicated.” Stephanie laughed softly. “Good one. But that won’
t be going on here at the new and improved Westwood Academy. My new and improved Westwood Academy.”

  “You’re insane,” the priest said, his mouth twisting in outrage.

  “More than that,” she muttered back at him, “I’m aching to tear things down. Don’t think I never knew why you allowed me to run around this Academy and do what I wanted. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of why you sent that novice into my bed. But you made yours, didn’t you? Because by turning a blind eye to me, it was so much easier. Because who best to help you with your own sins than a witch?”

  The archbishop’s eyes widened, and he glanced at his colleagues, denying everything already. “What the hell are you—”

  “One year ago today, you made your bed with a girl from the freshman class, Claire Benevento. Then Augustina Hamelin, Nicolette Grimwallis, Marietta Sills . . .”

  The names continued until Angela felt dizzy, the whole world twisted and sick.

  She finally forced herself to listen again, overcoming her nausea beneath the weight of the archbishop’s personal transgressions. He was immobile before Stephanie, already before the Judgment Seat because somehow she knew everything there was to know about his taste in schoolgirls. When she came to the end, no one dared to breathe.

  “You wanted to sniff the Archon out and stamp Her flat. Before She could make the first move. Well, you waited too long. Today, one more demon is going to drive out the rest. The ones that aren’t useful.”

  “How will you do it?” the archbishop whispered, trembling like Lyrica.

  “First? We’ll burn our most troublesome witch at the stake.” Stephanie pointed at Angela again, perfectly calm. Her smile made Naamah’s look like child’s play. “Ready to go up in flames?”

  A mass of black cloud had settled over St. Mary’s, and its torrents of rain continued to spatter onto Kim and his already soaked clothing. If last night’s storm had been terrible, then Luz was approaching the verge of catastrophe on this High Holy Day. Circumstances, it was obvious, were worsening by the hour, as if everyone now had to function on borrowed time.

  Everything was fast becoming clear to him.

  Slowly but surely, the Ruin was revealing herself, and the universe, the creatures in it, both dead and alive, were weeping under the pressure.

  Kim splashed through the moats of water near the entrance of the church. The rain had increased to a steady slant, nearly burning into his eyes. Soon, visibility would drop to zero, forcing him to fumble his way into the cathedral.

  At least no one was around to watch.

  The courtyard in front of St. Mary’s was empty, the surrounding towers dark and silent. Everyone had locked themselves indoors, far from the violence of the rain and wind.

  Fury croaked to his left, emerging for a second through the sheet of water, her wings flapping frantically. She screeched, the chill sound echoing from stone to stone, and flew back into the downpour like a lost shadow.

  An alarm call.

  He reached for the knife in his pocket, gripping the handle.

  The wind changed, rushing on him from above. Kim slammed to the ground beneath its force, the breath knocking out of his chest, hot pain racing along his torso. A new shadow, like Fury’s but so very much larger, descended on him with a falcon’s speed and fury. He whipped around, fending off two black wings the length of his own body, their feathers beating against his skin. Screaming, he tore the knife out of his pocket and slashed wildly.

  The rain parted, revealing a male face with green eyes.

  Then the angel swerved out of his reach, disappearing behind the water, its wings missing the knife again by a hairsbreadth.

  Another deep peal of thunder shook the ground, ripples of lightning highlighting the world with silver.

  There, to the right.

  The angel had landed nearby, standing like a tall, black nightmare behind the curtain of rain—examining him for a weak spot.

  He hadn’t expected this. A demon, yes. Israfel, maybe. The Supernal must have had bodyguards, servants, or children. But whoever this angel truly was, he didn’t want Kim in that building, already seeming to understand how important it was that he eventually get inside. Kim had nothing to save him but his instincts and his skills, and they wouldn’t count for much when he could barely see his opponent.

  “Is that all, you sneaky bastard?” Kim shouted over the storm.

  Silence.

  The angel was waiting for him to make the next move.

  Fair enough. Kim reached for a prayer ward on the inside of his coat and lifted it into the rain. The ink melted off the paper, its once crisp edges folding over with moisture. He tossed the ward as far as it would go, meaning to give himself that second’s worth of protection before it disintegrated. “Libera me a malo!”

  The angel backed off into the shadows, vanishing amid the towers.

  Yes—it was working.

  Kim pushed onto his feet, laughing a little. This would be easier than he’d thought.

  More wind. He pitched backward onto the street, crushed beneath the fury of two white wings hammering the air above him. This time, a female face broke through the sheets of water between them, her eyes a perfect match for the male’s, green with venom. He swiped at her with the knife, cutting the side of her shoulder. “Libera me a malo! Averto absum!”

  She screamed back at him, more enraged than hurt.

  Then, with an infuriated shiver of her wings, she fought through the needle-sharp pain of his words. He aimed his blade at her throat, but before he could touch the angel, her fingers wrapped around his neck. Kim coughed, straining to wrench her hands away, his back arching up from the stones. They struggled, rolling on the ground, but the angel held tight and already the world was fading into a giant swirl of gray, every bit of his pain lifting like a fog before morning. His body began to numb over. He relaxed and stopped clawing at his murderer’s perfect face.

  Another surprise. He’d never imagined Angela would be his final thought.

  The slow, sarcastic clapping from the side entrance of the altar sounded suitably horrific.

  Brendan appeared seemingly out of nowhere, marching through a rank of novices who parted like twin waves. Hideous bruises bloomed on his face and neck. Sophia glanced at Angela for the first time since she’d entered the cathedral, biting her lip, visibly nervous. Beside Sophia, Naamah frowned, flexing the knives buried beneath her nails.

  Brendan doesn’t know about the demon. If nobody does anything—he’ll die.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Stephanie said, letting him get close. Too close. “Good timing, Brendan. You can do me a favor and join your sister.”

  Brendan laughed, the noise abrupt and harsh, ringing against frescoes and stone. “Really, I’m impressed. You’ve done it this time.”

  “And you sound—and look—as ridiculous as I expected.”

  “I just find it ironic that you’re threatening my sister, when you’re the one about to burn.” Brendan pushed the greasy curls from his head, appearing unwholesomely careless. The expression on his face was disturbing. Older, more mature, but in the way of a person who’d sunk his teeth into forbidden fruit, losing all his innocence the more he tasted it. The sight was a terrible one, but Angela knew better than to open her mouth. She’d have her chance to act.

  Besides—this wasn’t her brother anymore.

  “Remember when I said, ‘nice knowing you’?” Stephanie folded her arms. She beckoned to Naamah, encouraging her nearer. “I lied.”

  “One of your friends from Hell, I’m guessing?” Brendan’s lazy grin hadn’t changed.

  Naamah stepped up to the altar, unperturbed by the closeness of any holy objects, people, or pictures. But it was fast becoming apparent that only part of what Angela knew about angels was the actual fact. Latin hurt them, yet a holy object seemingly had no effect whatsoever. Darkness oppressed the cathedral as Naamah climbed the stairs, and the priests cringed, some pressing against the walls. They could sense the wrongness of her.
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  She glared at them, her eyes blacker than two pools of oil.

  Then the head priest made his mistake. “Vade, daemon.” Despite the thunder, even murmuring the Latin sounded louder than a trumpet blast in the quiet cathedral. “Anima vestras ad infernum remittite . . .”

  Naamah flinched, like he’d stuck her with a needle.

  She rounded on him, teeth gritted. Those nightmarish blades slipped out of her fingers.

  The archbishop blanched whiter than death, still mumbling under his breath while she advanced on him. Her braids resembled a coil of miniature snakes attached to her head, and she loomed over the novices, tall and perfect and completely lethal.

  He tried to speak, but she snapped her fingers, their metal clanking together.

  His mouth sealed shut.

  “That’s funny.” She leaned into him. “You’re suddenly speechless.”

  Stephanie sighed in the background, impatient and unsympathetic. She folded her arms, leaning against a stone column with her ponytail swinging against it, ropelike. “Get on with it.”

  Naamah’s mouth twitched, and she stiffened ever so slightly. Stephanie’s tone of voice had bothered her.

  There was a tense silence.

  The demon swung her arm.

  The priest’s head rolled down the altar steps, its face staring at her in disbelief. It seemed to take forever for the archbishop’s eyes to glaze over, for Angela to catch her breath again.

  For the tremendous panic to begin.

  Students burst from their pews, stampeding in thunderous chaos to the doors, the windows. The screams were deafening. Glass smashed. People howled, stepped on by others, by friends. Outside, the storm continued, relentless and terrifying, and as the doors held fast and the windowsills sat too high for anyone to climb through them, the pandemonium increased by the second.

  Angela dashed from her own pew and snagged Sophia by the arm, holding on with real pain while the novices swept by, screaming with the others. Those brave enough to challenge Naamah had already died, either bleeding or collapsing from an invisible blow to the head, the chest—it was too hard to tell.

  Everything was madness.

  There’s no way to stop her. Even I can’t do it. If I try to use Latin, she’ll kill me, or at least shut me up.