Ashes to Ashes

by Carrie F. Shepherd

  “Very well.” She sighed. “What is it that you seek from me?”

  Swallowing, he forced himself to raise his gaze. But only slightly. Though he was here of his own accord, he was terrified.

  “I seek your succor.” He muttered and lowered himself into one of the chairs on the other side of her desk. “I’m not . . . I can no longer bear to serve Noliminan.”

  “Metatron.” He swallowed, afraid of her hurtful words. He didn’t care for her tone. “You know that I cannot grant you my succor.”

  More than anything, this response angered him. She had never turned down any one of the angels or demons who had come to her for help. Yet she was unwilling to aide her own son?

  “I cannot—” He closed his eyes, shook his head and forced himself to meet her gaze. “My Lady, I beg it of you. I cannot bear to look upon Lord Noliminan anymore. Yet, I am forced to pretend that I am in his fealty.” His teeth clenched together. “I loathe him. I despise the tasks that he orders me to do in his name.”

  He had to look away again as memory upon memory of acts committed at Noliminan’s behest crashed down upon him, crushing his already broken spirit. His task, as a member of the Quorum, was to deliver the message of the King of Lords to those who displeased him. Noliminan’s anger, which came swift and often, was almost always exacted at Metatron’s hands.

  Yet never so frequently, or violently, as it was delivered upon the members of the Quorum. It was these punishments, above all others, which Metatron was no longer able to bear.

  He decided to share this with her. Perhaps the knowledge that her other children were being mistreated would entice her to spare and protect him.

  “Especially when it comes to my brothers and sisters.”

  “What is it that he has, lately, done to your brothers and sisters?” Her tone was guarded, yet curious. As he had suspected it would be, the concern she felt for her children was palpable upon her expression.

  “He loathes that Uriel and Mihr are female.” His anger was rising. Not toward Noliminan, he was surprised to discover. It was rising against her. “What were you thinking? Turning them male when they were babes?”

  “He never would have accepted them into the Quorum as women.” She said simply. “I regret that decision not a bit. Someone needed to protect them. I knew that their brothers would. If they had been delivered to him as women, then he would have had Zadkiel expire their souls and he would have forced Raziel and I to try again.”

  “He would never—”

  Seeing her eyes narrow, he stopped himself. Of course he would have. And he would have made either Michael or Metatron be the one to hold his sisters down as Zadkiel ran his finger over their brows.

  “Yet you won’t protect me from him?” Metatron growled at her. “You won’t free me from his servitude?”

  “To go where, exactly?” She asked him. Her expression was painful to look upon. “Do you honestly believe that he will let you walk free and unscathed into the service of another? Or into exile to serve me, for that matter? You are his property, Metatron. Nothing less and nothing more. If I were to grant you my succor, he would hunt you down and destroy you.” She looked away from him then, her eyes flashing with the pain that the truth of her words wrought within her heart. “If only to put me in my place.”

  “Do you not understand that whatever short time I would live as a free man—?”

  “Trust me in this, Metatron.” Her tone was heavy and her dark eyes were brooding. “He would sense your intentions. You wouldn’t even make it to the door.”

  “My Lady, I—”

  “I am not telling you no.” She looked swiftly away. “I am telling you not today.” She sighed and returned her gaze to his. “Think to the game of kings’ castles, my son. And think to how I choose to play.”

  His lips pursed as he looked upon her. “My life isn’t a Gods be damned game of kings’ castles.”

  “I know it isn’t.” She forced herself to smile at him. “Please be patient. This is all I ask of you.”

  “I will.” He rose to his feet and glared at her across her desk. “For now. Because you’ve left me no choice.”

  “I’ve left you no choice because you have no choice.” She corrected him. “I do have a plan. Which, if it works out as I intend it to, will protect you. As well as your brothers and sisters.”

  Loathing the position that she was putting him in, Metatron had no choice but to believe her.

  -6-

  “Madness.” I seethed as Ishitar reached upward to pick another gourd from Noliminan’s forbidden fruit tree. “When your father learns what you have been doing, he’s going to be furious.”

  “Do you intend to tell him?” Ishitar lowered his hand from the gourd that he was about to pick and assessed me with his light brown eyes. “Oh. That’s right. You can’t.”

  “Do not mock me, boy.” I frowned at him. “You know well and good that if I wish to pass a message to him it will be an easy enough thing for me to do.”

  “It isn’t your ability that I speak to.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the tree. “You can’t tattle on me because you genuinely care about the consequence if you do.”

  I didn’t bother to deny this because, having watched him closely for the full of his life, I knew that it would do me no good. He is the one being in all of creation who understands me through and through.

  “When do you intend to deliver this new pie?” I asked him.

  “Soon.” He muttered as he placed the gourd he had just plucked into the sack at his hip. “In fact, I intend to move in with Loki. In payment to him for the inconvenience, I shall gift him the pie.”

  “What are you thinking?” I admonished him. “Do you know what that will do to Zad and Zam?”

  Ishitar turned toward me and assessed me with his contemplative gaze. It is a gaze that he uses to either study or intimidate and I have seen many a soul shatter when it is turned their way.

  I, however, am used to his ways. His tactics rarely, if ever, work on me.

  “They will be devastated.” I advised him, not giving him the advantage by lowering my eyes. “Especially Zamyael.”

  He waved his hand at me. I glared at him.

  “Never mind that Loki is an unfit choice.”

  “I have my reasons for choosing Loki.” He advised me as he reached upward and pulled another gourd from the tree.

  “I’m certain that you do.” My lips thinned. “This doesn’t mean—”

  He turned to face me. His eyes were blazing with irritation. Gone was that contemplative, studious expression that he generally wore.

  “Leave it, Azrael.” He warned me. “You have no say in the matter and there is no argument you may share that will change my mind.”

  Understanding the truth of those words, I turned my back to him as he finished filling his sack with Noliminan’s forbidden fruit.

  -7-

  When the angels of the second revolution were exiled, every one of them felt lost and confused. They were so used to the repression of the Sixty Realms that to find themselves in a situation where they would be allowed to not only create a new society, but also to govern it, had been overwhelming.

  Wisterian was chosen to be their King because he had been the angel who had stepped up to lead the revolution and, as a result, their ruling Goddess, Lady Theasis, deemed that he should be the one to father the future Emissary Lord of the race they would create. The same was true with Jamiason when it came to the determination as to who would become King of the demons. This left over six hundred angels and five hundred demons who had completely lost their sense of purpose and self.

  Balean breken Thyman, and his twin brother, Jeanir, included.

  From a distance, the angels had watched the demons, under Jamiason’s command, as they swiftly built a society that seemed to work for them. Each of the demons was raised up by James and directed to contribute by performing the tasks that he or she knew they would excel at.

  The an
gels, however, were not as willing to fall into old habits. As a result, rather than immediately propagating their race, chaos had ensued.

  It had been Balean and Jeanir who had finally approached Wisterian and told him that something must be done. And, after far too many cups and a mindless games of storming stones, the solution came all too easily.

  Since the angels were not willing to play to their natural strengths, they would, instead, trust to their fates.

  A ridiculous notion, Balean reflected as he tied the strap of his saddle tightly to his horse.

  Especially given Jeanir, who had trained under Sirs Michael and Metatron, was now living in the whore’s village, a stallion sent to stud, rather than swinging a sword or stringing a bow.

  Balean shook his head and allowed his neck to bend backward so that he was staring at the ceiling.

  “What a fucking mess.” He muttered under his breath.

  “Balean?” Zander, an angel who had pulled the black storming stone and, as a result, assigned the charge of a servant, gave Balean a wan smile. Here was an angel whose wings had been stripped from him because his child, who was a stable boy, had had the audacity to play boyish games with a Prince. “Are you alright?”

  “Time will tell.” Balean gave him a patient smile. He’d always liked Zander. He was an easy going bloke who, like Balean and Jeanir, had been human when he wore his mortal veil. Yet, now that he was wingless, Balean found it difficult to look upon him at times. “Did you hear of the morning events at the castle?”

  “Ta.” Zander looked swiftly away. “The young Prince . . . ?”

  “He’s well.” Balean reached upward and clapped Zander’s shoulder. “Safe.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it, Captain Balean.” Zander swallowed and raised his gaze to meet Balean’s. “The horses are ready.”

  Balean gave him a tight smile and watched with a heavy heart as the wingless angel darted away lest he say something which he may later regret. Balean shook his head when Zander closed the door to his small stocking room, wishing that he had never had that first cup or cast that first stone that had, in the end, fated them all.

  Although he was grateful for another moment of reflection, the moment didn’t last long. The elves’ walls had been breached and there wasn’t time for melancholy or regret over poor choices.

  He mounted his horse and drove her out of the stable, grateful to see enough of his men gathered that there was no need to wait for a larger party.

  The only one missing, he noted, was their General at Arms.

  “Where is Titheron?” He asked Dario, who, aside from Jeanir, was Balean’s best friend. He was a tall angel with black hair and bright, blue eyes. He was also the best damn soldier of the lot of them. “He should be here.”

  “We were unable to find him.” Dario replied. “Perhaps he’s in his whore’s bed.”

  Balean’s lips thinned at that. Though it was probably true, this wasn’t the time to disparage their General at Arms.

  “We’ll find him when it’s time to make our report.” He muttered. “Which puts me in charge of the patrol.” He forced himself to smile at the men who were at the ready. “Shall we?”

  Balean kicked his mare to lead his party.

  As they rode to the gate, Balean felt at peace. The one thing that he was certain of, despite the horror of the day, was that he loved his lands. The trees were tall, their trunks covered with moss. The boughs of them were littered with bright flowers that were white in the light of the day and seemed to glow yellow in the night. He had often found great wonder, when he was on the evening shift, in the fact that the trees seemed to be covered with a webbed netting which sparkled even brighter than the stars which hung in the evening sky above him.

  Such thoughts would not remain with him for long.

  Well before he reached the guard posts, which were set at the great marble wall, Balean knew something was wrong.

  For one thing, the forest was too damn quiet. For another, he and his men had not passed even one other angel for a good three streams stemmed before they reached their destination.

  When they turned the corner of the path that brought the wall into sight, Balean and his men froze.

  The forest was littered with the bodies of his friends. All of them gray corpses; all of them drained of every drop of their life blood. And, around them, piles of ashes where their demon counterparts had been slain.

  “Dear Gods.” One of the angels behind Balean muttered.

  “The Gods would have had nothing to do with this.” Balean responded, shaking his head. “Not even that trickster, Hermes.” He heard the sound of his teeth as he ground them together and he inwardly winced. “This will have been Jamiason’s work.”

  “Jamiason?” The surprised tones in which this question was asked caused Balean to turn and glare at Dario. “Never.”

  “What other corpse turns to ash when it dies?” Balean spat. “If not the vampires?”

  “Perhaps.” Dario agreed. “But Jamiason—”

  “Is their King and is, therefore, responsible for their actions.”

  Dario’s thin lips curled downward at their corners. “James is my friend. I won’t believe he would condone this.”

  “It doesn’t matter if he condones it.” Brendyn, standing at Dario’s side, muttered. His brown eyes were darting over the carnage before them. “He is still responsible for the actions of his people.”

  “He would never—”

  “Enough.” Balean grunted. “The vampires were here. They have breached our walls and slain our kin. Whomever is responsible for that must pay.”

  “Balean.” He turned toward one of his soldiers, Drakar, who was bent over the body of a fallen warrior. “It’s Titheron.”

  Balean’s knees grew weak. If Titheron was dead that meant that he, Balean, would be raised to the General of the Kinsgard.

  It was a responsibility he wasn’t ready for.

  He steeled himself, straightened his back and turned toward Dario.

  “Clean up this mess.” He ordered his friend. “Lest our enemies know our weakness. I must inform the King.”

  -8-

  I watched Lord Loki with dire fascination as he slipped into Lucias’ cottage, his eyes dancing around her sitting room, as they always did, so that he could drink in her essence before seeking her out. I knew that he was in love with the Lady from the days when I had been able to raid his thoughts. I also knew that he believed she was beyond him.

  When he seemed content that he could mask his desire for her, he sought her out in the library. She sat, as she often did, on her favorite, high backed, leather chair, her feet tucked beneath her and a book in her hands.

  Seeing her there, to him the perfect picture of beauty, he shivered. No amount of preparation ever seemed to truly ready him for the reality of her features. I suspect that he believed, as his eyes danced over the lines of her face, that he was a fool to have even tried.

  “My Lady.”

  She looked up, her lips parting. She was surprised to see him, I knew. And, then again, as her lips curled into a smile, I realized that she was not.

  “Loki.” Her voice was sultry, causing him to shiver again as he stepped toward the chair opposite her, tugging on the leg of his trousers as if to use them to shield his obvious lust from her. “Metatron visited my abode this afternoon.”

  Loki, who was lowering himself into the chair, froze. Having watched him sit outside of her prison and eat Ishitar’s pie, I knew he understood that she had been told by the Prince of Providence what had taken place at the Council meeting which had fated us all. Yet, she had respected him enough, until now, to never raise her son’s name in his presence.

  “He asked me for his succor.” Her lips thinned. “He asked for release from Noliminan’s servitude.”

  “I can’t blame him for that.” Loki replied, his tone heavy with harsh criticism, as he finished sitting down.

  “I told him to wait.”

  Clearl
y surprised by this, Loki snapped at her, “Why ever for?! We could protect him.”

  “Not yet.” She looked swiftly away. “We can. But we have to lay out a plan first.”

  “Such as?”

  She looked at him. Her dark eyes were assessing. I sensed by his expression that he was, oddly enough, given the depths of his love for her, irritated by her regard.

  “Raziel isn’t right for my throne as Lady Regent.” She finally said. “You should sit upon it instead.” Her smile became true. “Lord Regent Loki. Has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Right.” He scoffed. “Noliminan will allow that.”

  “Mayhap not at the moment.” She conceded. “But what if you have a Quorum of your own to serve you?”

  “I will never bed Raziel.” Loki growled at her. “You know I can’t stand to even be in the same room as the cunt.”

  “Raziel is not the one who can breed archangels.” She stopped him, her gaze leveling him. She didn’t, I knew, appreciate Loki’s distasteful insult toward the woman who had birthed her sons and daughters. “I am.”

  “Perhaps.” Loki’s expression took on an ugly quality. This time it was me who shivered. “But, even with the spell that allows you to return to your male form when it suits you, Raziel is required to accept your seed. Even if you raped her, she’d just root it out.”

  “I don’t mean to use the spell.” She looked away. As she did so, the tight expression washed out of Loki’s features and was replaced with his general regard of longing for her. “And I don’t mean to rape her.” She granted him a coquettish smile. “I mean that you should sire them.” He flinched backward as she turned her gaze to meet his once again. “And, I mean to birth them.”

  “My Lady . . . ?” His tone was heavy with surprise. “You cannot mean—?”

  “Ta.” She smiled softly at him. “I can and I do.”

  “But you have ever been faithful to Noliminan as a woman!” Loki cried. “Why, now, would you betray him?”