Grace and Glory

by Armentrout, Jennifer L.

  “Yes. Yes! We love each other, Zayne, and whatever has happened to you, we can fix this. We can figure it out together and—”

  “We?” His hand curled around my throat, the grip a fraction from being deadly. “There is no we. There is no Zayne,” he spat. “I am Fallen.”

  There wasn’t time for those words to do any damage or for them to make sense. His hand clamped down until only the thinnest amount of air could get through. I had no idea if he would squeeze or not. If so, had he come back to life just to kill me? Seemed fitting in an ironic way. If that turned out to be the case, obviously I was going to be superdead and superpissed, but I’d also be so heartbroken. Because when Zayne snapped out of whatever this was, the knowledge of what he’d done would kill him all over again.

  I didn’t deserve this.

  Neither did he.

  What I did next was hard to explain. My hands lifted without conscious thought. I placed my trembling fingers against his cheek and pressed my palm against his chest. Flesh against flesh.

  Zayne blinked, releasing his hold as he jerked back. There was a brief glimpse of confusion clouding his bright eyes as I twisted to the side, sucking in glorious oxygen. I didn’t know what made him let me go, what stopped him from applying just a little more pressure. Too happy to be breathing again, I really didn’t care at the moment.

  His hand closed over my shoulder, and I tensed, but all he did was roll me onto my back. It was almost tender.

  “What...” He shook his head again, sending strands of blond hair swinging. “Why wouldn’t you attack me? Why would you touch me? I can feel the power in you. You can fight me. You won’t win, but it’s better than just lying there.”

  Better than not killing him, I wanted to say, but even I could realize there was no point in doing so. Reasoning with him wasn’t going to work. I could scream from the rooftops that I loved him, and it wasn’t going to make a difference. I had to get out of here, get somewhere safe to figure out what the Hell was happening. I hated to do what I was about to do, but there was no other option.

  Reaching to my thigh, I unsheathed the iron dagger that had remained hidden under the length of my shirt.

  “Why won’t you fight me?” he demanded. “You’re the enemy. You should fight me.”

  I couldn’t even process him calling me the enemy. “I won’t fight you because I love you, you freaking idiot.” My fingers wrapped around the handle of the dagger as his features settled into the look he always gave me when I did something he couldn’t understand, which had been often. It tore at my heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Zayne tilted his head to the side again. “Sorry for—”

  I reared off the dirt and grass, swiping my arm in a high arc. The sharp edge of the blade caught him under the chin. I kept the blow quick and shallow, just enough to stun him.

  Zayne stumbled back, his beautiful face contorting in fury. He clasped his throat, letting out a roar that sent chills to my very soul. Springing to my feet, I didn’t hesitate. I took off as if the very devil was after me.

  * * *

  I ran and ran, blindly cutting through traffic and nearly mowing down countless people as my sneakers pounded off pavement. How I didn’t get flattened by a car was beyond me. Every part of my body hurt, but I didn’t slow down. I didn’t even know where I was going—

  Follow me.

  My feet stumbled as the voice that was so not mine echoed around me. Breathing heavy, I slowed. Harsh yellow streetlights cast ominous shadows along the sidewalks. Faces and bodies were nothing more than shapeless blurs as horns honked from the street and people shouted.

  Follow me, Trueborn.

  Either I was losing my mind, which in my humble, nonbiased opinion would be completely understandable at this point, or I was actually hearing a voice in my head.

  But didn’t hearing voices in your head also mean you were losing your mind?

  Follow me, child of Michael. It is your only hope to restore the one who Fell for you.

  A sudden image of what had looked like a star plummeting to Earth formed. Zayne. That had been Zayne.

  Fallen.

  He said he was Fallen.

  I knew what that meant, but it couldn’t be.

  Follow me.

  The voice...it sounded like it bled power. It was no voice I could imagine. I swallowed dryly, my gaze darting around erratically and seeing nothing. Zayne had come back from the dead—he’d come back different in a very Pet Sematary way, and with wings, but he’d come back. That was him, and he was alive, so I could very well be hearing a real voice in my head.

  Anything was possible at this point.

  But if the voice was real, how in the world was I supposed to follow something I couldn’t see?

  No sooner had that thought finished, I heard, Trust your grace. It knows where to go. You’re already halfway to where you need to be.

  Trust my grace? I almost laughed, but I was too winded to do so. I was already halfway to where I needed to be? All I had been doing was running...

  I’d been running blindly.

  I’d run with no real conscious thought. Just like when I touched Zayne. Instinct had taken over both times, and instinct and grace were one and the same.

  I was willing to try anything that would help me figure out what had happened to Zayne.

  Picking up my pace, I started running and went straight until I took a left. There was no reason. I just cut down a street and then kept going. Then I took a right. It started raining, coming down steadily. I had no idea where I was going. Heart thumping against my ribs, I crossed a congested corner. I hadn’t heard the voice again, and just when I was beginning to fear I had imagined it, I saw the...the church across the street, slowly becoming more clear. Constructed of stone and with many steeples and turrets, it looked like something straight out of medieval times. Every part of me knew that was where I’d been led to. How or why, I had no idea.

  I thought I recognized the church as I climbed the wide steps, passing between two lit lampposts. Saint Patrick’s or something? Moonlight glinted off the cross above the doorway, and for a moment, it looked like it glowed with heavenly light.

  Stepping under the alcove, I drew in a shallow breath. Rain coursed down the side of my face and off my clothing. Blood caked under my mouth. Was it mine? Zayne’s? I wasn’t sure. I had a sinking suspicion that I might’ve cracked a rib that probably had just healed, but I felt no pain. Maybe because I was feeling so much it didn’t leave room for my body to beg for a time-out.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, approaching the door, and halted.

  Every hair on my body stood and the sense of unease grew until I found it difficult to swallow. Having no idea what to expect, I opened the heavy doors and stepped inside the building built over two centuries ago. An immediate fissure of electricity danced over my skin, like a warning that I was...that I was somewhere I didn’t belong.

  A child of any angel, let alone an archangel, was a big no-no even though I was basically created to fight for all the holy rollers. I shouldn’t be all that surprised by how every instinct in me demanded that I turn and leave.

  But I didn’t.

  My muscles locked as a small door to my right creaked open. A young priest swathed in white robes with red trim stepped out.

  He nodded at me. “This way, please.”

  Unsure whether I should be grateful that I appeared to be expected or really freaked out, I got my feet moving. Quietly, I followed the priest down a narrow corridor. As we went, he stopped every few feet to light candles. If he hadn’t, I probably would’ve walked into a wall.

  Saint Brendan the Navigator’s statue guarded the entrance to the nave of the church. He held a boat in one hand and a staff in the other. Saint Brigid stood opposite of him, a hand over her heart.

  I had a cr
eepy feeling that the statues were eyeing me as the priest led me toward the sanctuary. My steps faltered as my eyes slowly pieced together what I was seeing.

  Four stone angels knelt on the floor, their wings tucked back. In their hands were basins of what I guessed was holy water, since I doubted they were collecting rainwater or something.

  The priest stepped aside, motioning me forward. With my heart in my throat, I entered the sanctuary. Straight ahead, a thirteen-foot cross hung above the main altar, bearing both the crucified and risen Jesus.

  A frigid breeze reached me, and the next breath I let out formed misty clouds. That was...odd. So was the rich scent of sandalwood accompanying the cold air. I turned and found the priest gone. Vanished.

  Great.

  Not to be sacrilegious or anything, but this wasn’t a place I wanted to be left alone in. I started past the stone angels—

  In unison, they lifted their bowed heads and held their basins out.

  Oh my God, that was a whole bucketful of nightmares. My stomach dipped as I resisted the urge to run back through the hallway while stone ground against stone. One of the angels’ arms broke away from the basin, moving slowly to point to the right of the altar. Chills ran over my skin as I slowly turned.

  I gasped.

  He stood before the altar, dressed in some sort of white tunic and pants that no one could buy off Amazon. The outline of his body seemed to shimmer as he took complete corporeal form. From the tips of the whitish blond curls down to his bare feet, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but then his wings unfolded from his body, spanning at least eight feet in each direction. They were so luminous and white they glowed in the dim light. They moved noiselessly, but the power of those wings stirred the air, blowing back my hair even with several feet separating us. I squinted, leaning forward. What was on the tip of each wing? Something was...

  Oh God.

  There were eyes on the tips of his wings. Hundreds of them!

  My skin crawled as my gaze went back to his face, but I had to look away quickly. It was painful—the purity to his beauty cut through my skin, shining a spotlight on every dark thought I’d ever had.

  I knew what he was—what type of angel.

  A Throne.

  To look upon them was to expose every secret one ever held and be judged for each one. And I was being judged now. His whole demeanor, from the way he tilted his head to the side to the way his bright blue eyes seared through skin and muscle, told me that he was seeing everything.

  And he wasn’t impressed.

  There was death in those crystal eyes. Not “moving on to the next stage in life” or “standing before the Pearly Gates” kind of death, but the vast emptiness of the final death—the death of a soul.

  I took a deep breath and started to speak.

  The angel opened his mouth.

  An ear-piercing blare shook the stained-glass windows and the pews, hitting an octave that no human could make or stand. I doubled over, clutching my ears. It was like a thousand trumpets blaring at once, shaking me to the very core. The sound echoed through the sanctuary, bouncing around my skull until I was sure my head would explode. Wet warmth trickled out of my ears, down my hands.

  When I didn’t think I could take it anymore, the sound ceased.

  Trembling, I lowered my bloodstained hands and lifted my head. The angel looked at me pitilessly as his wings continued their quiet movement.

  “That was special,” I croaked.

  He didn’t speak, and the silence that stretched out was unbearable.

  “You summoned me here,” I said, bracing myself for another unearthly wail. That didn’t come. Neither did a response. “You said it was the only way to help Zayne.”

  Still, there was nothing.

  And I just lost it. All the pain, the fear, the grief and even the joy of seeing Zayne again crashed through me. “You spoke in my head, didn’t you? You told me to come to you.”

  Silence.

  “Can you not hear me? Did your own scream burst your eardrums? Or is this amusing to you? Is that it? Is Gabriel trying to end this world and Heaven not enough entertainment for you? Damn you!” I yelled, scratching my throat raw. “Fine. You just want to stand here and stare at me? I can do the same thing. Better yet, how about I go outside and start telling every person I come across that angels are real. I can prove it. I’ll just whip out my grace. Then I can introduce them to a few demons and when I’m done with—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He spoke in a voice that was richly musical, infinitely kind without a trace of humanity. It was so at odds with itself that I winced. “You’re here for him, the one who died protecting you.”

  I flinched then. “Yes. But he’s alive.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s not right.”

  “Of course not.”

  I shook—every part of me shook. “What happened to him? How is he here?”

  The Throne tipped his head to the side. “He committed an act of selflessness and sacrifice by coming to your aid. He did so out of the purest love. He was restored to his Former Glory.”

  “Former Glory?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  The Throne nodded. “But he chose you. He chose to Fall.”

  2

  The room seemed to spin as what the Throne was saying began to sink in. It didn’t make sense, but I knew what the angel had meant by saying Zayne Fell. I knew what Zayne had meant when he said he was Fallen.

  What I didn’t understand was how it was possible.

  I had to take several deep, calming breaths before I spoke again. “Zayne was a Warden and my Protector. How did he Fall when he was never an angel?”

  His wings rose and then settled. “What do you think the Wardens were before they were cast unto stone? Did you believe the Creator snapped them into existence out of boredom?”

  I started to frown. Yeah, that was exactly what I believed.

  “No. God was not simply bored. What you call Wardens were once the guardians of man, great ones, but they failed. They caved to the lure of sin and vice. They Fell.”

  “I don’t understand. I was told—”

  “That the Fallen were wiped clean from this Earth by the Wardens?” He smiled faintly. “They rewrote their histories. Can you blame them for wanting to hide their shame?” He stepped down from the altar, causing me to tense. “They buried their deeds so deep that many generations have been born and gone to the Heavens, never knowing their true past. Some who Fell were stripped of their wings and their grace by the archangels and Alphas. Others escaped into Hell. But those who did not run, and recognized their sin, took their punishment. They were entombed in stone.”

  “Alive?” I whispered.

  “They became the warning that evil was all around and no one, not even God’s angels, were immune to it.”

  “They became the first stone gargoyles.” I sucked in a small breath, horrified to think that anyone had been trapped in stone. “How long?”

  “Centuries,” the Throne answered with a shrug.

  My mouth dropped open. Centuries trapped in stone? How did any of them come out of that with their minds intact?

  “But with the demon populace increasing, God intervened, and the Alphas gave some of those entombed a choice—to be free to fight the demons and protect man or to remain entombed.”

  That didn’t sound a whole lot like freedom or a choice to me, but what did I know?

  “Those who accepted the choice became the first Wardens, their true stone form designed to serve as a reminder, and the human form given back so that they could blend in with humans. Their grace was still removed so that there was no risk of a rebellion and they were able to create a lineage who would continue to protect man and serve God’s will,” he explained. “T
hat is who the Wardens truly are.”

  I suddenly thought of what the demon prince had said to me the day I’d gone to the coven to get Bambi, his familiar, back. Good thing the Wardens wiped out the Fallen eons ago, eh? Then Roth had chuckled as if he’d known something I hadn’t. Roth knew! That was why he was constantly making snide comments about the Wardens.

  “Wait. Those who didn’t accept the choice? Or weren’t given one?” I asked. “What happened to them?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. I did. I just didn’t want it to be true. “They’re still entombed.”

  “They are.”

  Dear God.

  The Throne watched me. “Then, when a Warden dies, he or she comes unto judgment. They will either be ushered into eternal peace or granted Glory. To be reborn as they once were.”

  Learning how the Wardens became who they were was mind-blowing, and I had questions. Like how in the world did the demons keep this a secret? If Roth knew the truth, which I was betting he did, then more had to. But at the moment only Zayne mattered. “So when you say he was restored, he was made an...an angel?”

  He nodded.

  “Zayne had wings—big, fluffy angel wings—and he had grace. A lot of it. I didn’t think the Fallen had wings or grace.” That was what I’d always been told, and even Roth had said so. Only Lucifer had retained his wings and grace, because he’d been kicked out before God realized that should be a thing to do.

  “Not all are given redemption. Only those who are truly deserving or are found to be useful are restored to their Glory, given their grace and wings. He was chosen,” the Throne repeated. “He was restored.”

  I opened my mouth, but there were no words as it finally, truly sunk in. Zayne had become an angel, an actual angel, and then he’d Fallen...

  How could he have done that?

  I wanted to go back out there, find him and smack him in the face. Not because I wasn’t appreciative. I wanted Zayne back. I’d been prepared to go to the Grim Reaper to see what I could do, but he’d become a freaking angel in Heaven. Angels were often pretty much useless in the big scheme of things, but they were angels. I had no idea what that would feel like, to be a full-blooded one, but it had to be amazing. It had to be like...coming home.