Dark Light of Day

by Jill Archer

  “Two for dinner, Mr. Aster?” she said expectantly, grabbing menus for us. I used the moment to look around.

  Empyr was every bit as grand as I’d heard it was. Stepping out of the lift, one faced directly south. New Babylon spread out beneath Empyr like small blocks on a grid. In front of me the grayish blue length of the Lethe ran a serpentine course at the southern edge of the city. Beyond it, Etincelle sparkled in the distance, its faint, yellow glow like a lightning bug’s next to the nearer white starlight bright of New Babylon at dusk. To my right, the sun set over the western part of the city, its fiery colors melting behind the buildings of St. Luck’s into a viscous mix of red, orange, and yellow that made it seem as if the whole world was on fire.

  I stared, stunned for a moment, by the beauty of it. But then, at Peter’s request, we were led into the section of the restaurant facing east. It was the least crowded section. Only a few other tables were occupied. It had a quiet feel to it; even the view was subdued. Instead of the brilliance of the western sunset or the sparkle of the Lethe and Etincelle, the eastern section of Empyr looked out over mostly fields and farms. It seemed an odd choice for Peter, who, like most Angels, preferred urban, modern aesthetics to scenes of pastoral tranquility.

  We were given menus and a wine list and left to ourselves. I reached for the wine list before Peter could. Empyr’s wine was as legendary as the restaurant itself. All of the wine was made in-house by Angels selected as much for their wine making abilities as their spell casting skills. All of the wines were made from apples (Angels were obsessed with apples) and each was paired with a beneficial spell. Empyr’s menu changed every few days; its wine list changed every night.

  Curious about the night’s offerings, I took a look at the list:

  EMPYR

  ~Wine List~

  CALVILLE BLANC D’HIVER: Pale green with swirls of red. Sweet & tart. Temporarily relieves aches and pains. Aids in healing.

  SPRING PEARMAIN: Greenish yellow. Served chilled. Refreshing & crisp. Enhances positive outlook.

  VANDEVERE (OR GRINDSTONE): Golden bronze. Sweet & salty with a buttery texture. Increases powers of observation.

  SWEET WINESAP: Rosy pink. Sugary and thick. Strengthens romantic attachment.

  ORANGE PIPPIN: Layers of red, orange, and dark yellow. Fruity with a hint of spice. Creates feelings of warmth and relaxation.

  The Spring Pearmain would have done me good but I wasn’t in the mood for a cold drink. And I didn’t need the Sweet Winesap to strengthen my romantic attachment. I was feeling far too attached to Ari already. The whole purpose of this meal was to forget about my current anxieties, both academic and romantic. So I ordered the Orange Pippin and tried to hide my smile when Peter ordered the Grindstone. Some things hadn’t changed. Peter might look different but his intellectual core was still intact.

  Over drinks, the easy camaraderie Peter and I had always shared came back as if the last four months and my declaration had never happened. We were at it again, plotting my way out of being a death dealer. Surely, I convinced myself (the Pippin contributing greatly to this line of thinking), if we found the Reversal Spell and Peter successfully cast it, the demons on the Demon Council would not take offense. Peter’s value as a spellcaster would only increase and I could do more good for Halja as a Mederi than as a Maegester. My newly acquired knowledge of our potential sins should we cast the spell without permission (for Peter, Unauthorized Spellcasting; for me, Waste, to name the first two that sprang to mind) were easily pushed aside as I sipped my second Pippin.

  After much mulling of the menu, I selected broiled whitefish with tomatoes, olives, and capers while Peter picked pine nut–encrusted sea bass served with potatoes. Our food arrived sometime later, smelling rich and flavorful. For a few moments I merely inhaled and consumed, happily aglow with the buzz of my Pippins and the company of my long-lost friend. Peter continued the discussion we’d started earlier, telling me how he—we—were going to search for Lucifer’s tomb. His usual unassailable confidence, combined with the effect of my drinks, had me nodding along with him.

  “But what really happened to Lucifer after the battle of Armageddon?” I asked, picking at my fish with a fork. As delicious as it was, I was getting full.

  “That’s the biggest mystery of all time,” Peter said. “Some say he transmuted on the field and turned into his true form before he died. Others say he’s off somewhere gathering his strength so he can return to claim his throne. Others say he was buried where he fell in battle and that he rose again the next day as the Morning Star.”

  Peter drank the last of his wine and looked out the window. The sun had set and the world below was mostly dark. Gas streetlights in the foreground gave way to yellowy glows behind farmers’ shades and shutters. Beyond that was the blackness of the unpopulated fields at night.

  “The star legends are the most interesting,” Peter continued, “because they are unusually factual about the time and place of Lucifer’s death. According to those legends, Babylon was no more than a small fort at the time of Armageddon. Lucifer, his warlords, and the fallen demon legions were buried six leagues due east of the old fort.”

  “Mary’s letter mentioned an abandoned fort,” I mused, getting caught up in the ancient mystery. “Too bad we don’t know where the old fort was. That would make looking for the tomb remarkably easy.”

  Peter smiled knowingly at me. Despite the Pippin, I shivered. My voice dropped to an awe-inspired whisper. “You know where the fort is.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Take a look at these.” He pulled the slim leather case out of his pocket again and opened it. Inside, tucked down behind Mary’s letter, were two small pieces of paper I’d missed. He unfolded one of them and spread it out on the table.

  “What is it?” I asked, reaching for it. I picked up the small piece of paper and examined it. It was tiny, no more than six inches square. It seemed to be some kind of architectural drawing.

  “Some kind of building plan?”

  Peter nodded just as I saw what was printed beneath it: Fort Babylon. The drawing showed the outline of the fort, complete with administrative buildings, a magazine, and parade grounds.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Some old map store near Northbrook,” Peter said, waving his hand to show the location of the clue had nothing to do with its significance. He laid down the other piece of paper. It was new, printed in color with a glossy finish. I recognized it immediately. Peter had torn out the first page of my Student Handbook. I pinched my brow, not understanding, and then suddenly, something clicked. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. My hand shook as I moved the old Fort Babylon drawing over the top of the new student’s map of St. Luck’s.

  They were the same.

  Lekai had been built where the magazine used to be and the administrative buildings were in the same place, although the Rabbit Warren had expanded. I realized, breathlessly, that the parade grounds could still be used for the same purpose today, if someone were to remove the benches from Timothy’s Square.

  Suddenly, I felt like running over to Empyr’s western windows to press my nose up against the glass. But Peter sat still, gazing east. I knew now why he had wanted to sit here with a view to the east. How much had the Grindstone increased his powers of observation? Enough to see in the dark? Enough to see into the past?

  “Do you see the tomb?” I whispered.

  Chapter 16

  Peter hadn’t actually seen the tomb, but with what he’d discovered so far we had a pretty good idea of where to look. The Pippins’ effect had largely disappeared but Peter’s enthusiasm had me agreeing to accompany him with shocking alacrity.

  After penning a quick note to be delivered to Ivy to let her know I was with Peter, we caught a cabriolet on Angel Street. Peter told the driver to take us as far as Sheol, a cluster of about a half-dozen homes at the far eastern edge of the city. Beyond that were only woods and uncultivated fields. The driver grumbled a lot about going so
far out. He’d never pick up a return fare, but Peter shushed him with a wad of cash and we rode the rest of the way in silence. I wasn’t having second thoughts exactly. But the farther away from the city we drove, the louder Ari’s voice became in my head.

  If Peter finds the Reversal Spell, will you let him cast it over you?

  If I answered honestly, only fear would make me hesitate. Fear of the exact effects of the spell. Fear that Peter, skilled though he was, might not be a match for a spell as powerful as the Reversal Spell. Fear of demon reprisal. Waste was a serious crime, as Copeland had made me realize during Sin and Sanction the day after I’d declared. Possibly even, although I didn’t want to admit it, fear of what Ari would say, although I still didn’t understand why he was so averse to me reversing my magic. If he liked me with waning magic, wouldn’t he like me even better with waxing magic?

  I knew full well that fear wasn’t a good basis for making decisions. Fear might keep soldiers one step ahead of the blade during battle but woe the warlord who used it to chart the course of war. And woe the woman who used it to chart the course of her own life. Fear had not kept me from declaring. So fear would not keep me from allowing Peter to cast the spell should we find it.

  The high stone, iron, and glass buildings at the city’s core quickly gave way to the shorter, squatter shape of suburban sprawl. In minutes that disappeared, replaced by the older, more dilapidated homes, barns, and sheds of Sheol.

  The cab slowed and came to a stop, its headlamps illuminating a makeshift barricade of rough timber at the end of the street. Peter exchanged a few words with the driver—I hoped they were working out the arrangements for our return trip. We were at least fifteen miles out and had more to walk if we were going to search six leagues east of St. Luck’s tonight. I was already bleary-eyed thinking about classes tomorrow morning.

  The cab drove off and we were left alone. In front of us was an old farmhouse. Its windows were completely dark; its inhabitants likely asleep for the night. We walked over to the barricade, scrambled over it, and dropped down onto a narrow dirt path that snaked its way through tall grass on either side. I glanced nervously at all the greenery around me, envisioning a blackened path of scorched earth that would take the land months to heal, but Peter quickly cast a protective spell over the path’s grass edges and then took the lead in crossing the field.

  He walked fast and, since he was taller and his strides longer, I almost had to run to keep up with him. Around us, the night wind blew sporadically as if in prestorm mode. I glanced up at the sky, thinking how stupid it was that we hadn’t even considered the weather before setting off. We’d been too caught up in the momentousness of it all. Who worried about umbrellas and slickers when they were searching for the greatest archeological and ecclesiastical find of all time?

  With each whip of wind the wild grass crackled as if an unseen army was moving through it. It made my hair stand up on end. I scurried after Peter, ignoring the impulse to stop and turn around. My feet scuffed through the dirt and I was thankful I’d chosen to wear low boots this morning instead of sandals.

  Ahead of us were the eastern woodlands. At night, their rough edge loomed before us like an ancient medieval wall. By the time we reached them I was perspiring so much my linen shirt was damp beneath the armpits. We stopped to rest before entering the woods. I was thirsty but we’d brought no water so I made do with taking big gulps of air. Peter apologized for the pace and insisted I wear his jacket. The night had grown chillier and, now that we’d stopped, the sweaty film I’d worked up on the hike over here made me shiver. Peter finished buttoning his jacket around me but left his hands on the buttons, holding me close. The moonlight shone harshly on his face, making its planes and angles appear sharper than they were.

  “Whatever happened to… the other St. Luck’s student from Marduk’s?”

  I knew he meant Ari. It was interesting that Peter didn’t want to say his name. I knew he remembered. Peter remembered everything.

  “He’s still around.”

  “He seemed overly fond of you, Noon. Are you… fond of him?”

  “Yes,” I said. I ignored the brief look of distaste that crossed Peter’s face and tried to step back, but Peter kept hold of the buttons of his jacket, preventing me from going too far. He refocused on me, in that eerie, overly intense Angel way.

  “Do you know why I never kissed you, Noon?” he asked and I stiffened. “When I was eight, my mother forbid it.” Peter laughed, a harsh guttural sound that sent goose bumps up my spine. “But I am through listening to her.”

  He bent his head toward me so that his face almost touched mine.

  “Ever since we were kids, I knew you were the one for me, despite the fact that you were born with waning magic. In fact, that’s how I knew. A woman who looks like you is meant to create things.

  “With your hands,” he said, grabbing one of mine. “With your heart,” he said, placing his other hand on my chest. Beneath his palm, my heart beat but my demon mark stayed cool. Apparently Ari was the only one who had the power to truly touch me there.

  “I knew a birth such as yours would not occur without a reason. From the moment I met you, I knew my destiny would be to reverse what happened to you. I knew if I could cure you, I could have you.” He squeezed me hard. “I want to give you your life’s dream, Noon. And then I want to live that life with you.”

  Before I could react, he kissed me. I was so shocked, for an instant, I did nothing. His lips were firm, almost hard, and his embrace was crushing. When we were teenagers, I’d constantly dreamed of Peter holding me like this, touching me like this, tenderly kissing me. But his kisses weren’t sweet; they were savage. After a few shocked seconds, I stiffened. But Peter didn’t seem to notice.

  “I hope I’m not too late,” he whispered roughly, releasing me.

  “For what?” I asked breathlessly, wondering how—if—this would change things. My thoughts scattered in a thousand different directions.

  “Just promise me, if I find the spell and cast it, that you’ll be mine—my Mederi, my wife.”

  I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what to say. “Peter…”

  But he laughed and released me. “I’m getting ahead of myself. First, let’s find the spell. Come on.”

  He grabbed my hand and led me into the forest.

  We walked for what seemed like hours, although I knew it couldn’t have been longer than half an hour. Sweat pooled under my armpits again and I gave Peter’s jacket back. Somewhere in the distance a low roll of thunder sounded. It rumbled toward us, reverberating through the trees and the ground. I felt it in my feet and teeth, which did nothing to ease my anxiety. The forest had been pitch-black when we’d first entered. The dark, dense canopy of trees had completely obscured the stars and moonlight. But Peter had cast a light spell and we now walked by its solid bluish white light. Its steady illumination made the trees look dead. For the first time in my life I almost wished for fire. Its flickering warm glow would have at least added the illusion of movement and life.

  I stepped on a stick, cracking it in half, and bit my lip to keep from crying out. What had sounded like a good idea while sitting in the opulent comfort of Empyr, buzzed from two Pippins, now felt like the height of lunacy. Here we were in the middle of an ancient forest, two hours to midnight and no one knew where we were. We lived in a world full of demons and one demon in particular (if not more) was already ticked off at me. What if Nergal or his lover chose this moment to find me and start harassing me?

  And everything Peter had said earlier… It was a lot to think about.

  It’s not as if I’d never wondered what a life with Peter would be like. I’d spent years of my adolescence thinking about it. We’d grown up together; we could grow old together. Our families’ estates bordered each other. Night could raise his family on the Onyx estate and Peter and I could live in the Aster house. Peter and I were roughly the same age and, in modern times at least, it wasn’t uncommon for Angels
and members of the Host to marry.

  I supposed my life would be near perfect with Peter as my husband. There would be no end to my mother’s gratitude if Peter found a way to reverse my magic. Even my father would likely give Peter anything in his power to give (which was substantial). Despite Peter’s recent leave of absence, he was well respected at the Joshua School. One day there might even be a place for him on the Divinity Council. Our children would grow up in Etincelle. They could climb trees, swim in Cocytus Creek, run races in Elysian Fields… My mind positively raced with the possibilities.

  Peter could give me all of that. But did I want all of that with Peter?

  Four months ago I would not have thought twice. He was my oldest friend. He had understood what I wanted and needed better than anyone. But now… I rubbed my demon mark furiously, trying to ignore my conflicted feelings. A sense of unease so profound I almost couldn’t breathe enveloped me.

  We stepped into a clearing.

  There were still trees but they were spindly and short, spread out and thin on the ground, all of them diseased or dying. With a crack, a bolt of lightning struck not half a mile from where we stood. Instantly, thunder boomed and the firmament of Halja broke loose. Rain fell in sheets as if the whole Lethe was being poured on our heads. Peter’s light spell wavered as he concentrated on moving forward. I wondered how much distance we’d traveled. Were we six leagues due east of St. Lucifer’s yet?

  With the next blast of lightning, I knew. There was no mistaking a graveyard no matter how old it was. Small mounds covered the ground. Row upon row of them, too straight and evenly spaced to have been anything but manmade. And more than half of them still had headstones, or what was left of them. Jagged slabs of rock jutted vertically out from most of the mounds. I was suddenly struck by an image of what the field must have looked like after Armageddon, covered in the gory remains of what death had left behind. The place reminded me uncomfortably of Lamia’s double row of rotting, decayed shark teeth.