No Shadows Fall

by L. J. LaBarthe

  Semjaza considered it. “You have shown me places all through the land you called Europe.”

  “Europe’s made up of many different countries, sire,” Azazel explained.

  “Irrelevant. When I come back into my power, take my throne, it will be one land. I will give it to my sons to rule in my name.” Semjaza turned to fix Azazel with a hard look. “I am displeased by these places. They are old, true, but they are not of angelkind. They do not have the touch of an angel’s Grace. They are too human, Azazel. I find them offensive.”

  Azazel bit his lower lip. “Perhaps the New World would be more to your taste, sire?”

  “The New World?”

  “The land called the Americas. The northernmost country is called Canada. The central mass is the United States of America. The southernmost landmass is South America. South America is made up of many smaller countries, unlike the North American part of the continent.”

  Semjaza pursed his lips. “And there are places of power on this landmass?”

  “Oh yes, sire, many.”

  Semjaza considered it. “Did you not say that Michael and Gabriel had taken to having bases there?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Any of the others?”

  Azazel spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Apart from Remiel, I do not know, sire.”

  “Hm. Well, let us begin there. What is the name of the places Remiel, Michael, and Gabriel use as bases?”

  Azazel smiled. “Michael and Gabriel are predominantly in the state called Oregon, sire. Remiel is somewhere eastward, I am not one hundred percent certain where.”

  “Or-e-gon,” Semjaza repeated, slowly sounding out the name. “Very well. Take me there.”

  Azazel bowed. “As you command.”

  Semjaza felt Azazel’s power reach out, encouraging the few hardy humans who were milling about Stonehenge to look elsewhere. Then Azazel’s hand was on his shoulder, and they were moving, crossing the many miles from England and Stonehenge to the New World, the Americas and Oregon.

  “THAT was fruitless,” Semjaza said. He was feeling at the end of his patience. Azazel had taken him to what he called the Columbia River Gorge, and now Semjaza paced back and forth in the grass beside the highway near to the town called Biggs Junction, glaring at the sparkling blue river waters while gray clouds scudded overhead.

  “Forgive me, sire,” Azazel said, cringing.

  “It is not your fault,” Semjaza sighed. “Are there other places?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Wait.” Semjaza paused, staring across the river. “What is that, over there?” He pointed.

  Azazel blinked, staring. “Oh. That’s the old Maryhill Estate. It’s abandoned now, since the war. I think most of it is burnt and destroyed.”

  “No, not the house,” Semjaza said, shaking his head impatiently. “That.”

  Azazel looked confused even as his gaze followed the line of Semjaza’s finger that pointed unerringly at a spot on top of a flat, dusty promontory, high above the river.

  “My lord, I believe that’s a copy of Stonehenge.”

  “Remarkable.” Semjaza hummed. “I wish to see it.” He moved without waiting for Azazel to reply.

  The replica of Stonehenge had been made with loving care. Semjaza could see that immediately. Each pit in the rock, each rough line had been recreated from the original Stonehenge in England. Small plaques were affixed to each standing stone, with names and dates on them, a tribute to war dead, Semjaza realized. He walked around the interior of the circle, resting his hands on the stones, feeling the power within them.

  In the center of the circle was the altar stone, and Semjaza walked to it, sat down on it, and let his power reach out, burrowing into the rock. It was warm and familiar, and he sighed, a long, contented sound. The rock had been shaped with love, like the rest of them here in this recreation of an ancient magical site.

  “Perfect,” Semjaza said to himself.

  The power he could feel was power of the land, the power of water from the river and the power of blood from those men whose names were inscribed on the plaques. Blood and water in rock and earth, positioned high upon a cliff to feel the endless ebb and flow of air and wind, the heated kiss of summer’s fiery sun. All the elements combined focused on this structure.

  Elemental magic. Semjaza was very familiar with that. Elemental magic was the first magic he had mastered.

  Semjaza stood up and turned around inside the circle of this newer Stonehenge. And then he threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh like that: joyful, gleeful, and powerful.

  “Sire?”

  Semjaza turned to face Azazel who stood between the altar stone and one of the inner circle standing stones.

  “This place, Azazel, is perfect. It is founded in the magic of the elements. This is where I will unleash my power and take back what is mine.”

  Azazel looked astonished. “You are sure?”

  “Oh yes.” Semjaza laughed again. “You cannot feel it?”

  “I confess, sire, that my own talent for elemental magic is limited.”

  “Ah, well, trust me.”

  “Of course.” Azazel said it without any hesitation. “But night is coming, sire.”

  “Take me to this ruined house,” Semjaza commanded. “Perhaps with a bit of careful magic, making sure not to be detected by any of angelkind, we can make part of it livable.”

  Azazel bowed. “Your wish, sire, is my command.”

  “Good.” Semjaza patted one of the stones again. “This is truly a powerful structure. Oh, not that old one in the Old World, with its magic lost to the mists of time. This one was made by hands guided by Nephilim. I am sure of it. Our children, Azazel. Our descendants reach through time itself to help us. I cannot fail. I am more certain than before of our success.”

  Azazel bowed again. “Your words humble me, sire.”

  “Let us see to this house, then, and then to food. I hear the sounds of game not far off. We should go hunting, Azazel, as we did in times long gone, when Eden was ours.”

  “I would like that, sire.” Azazel led the way out of the stone circle, toward a path overgrown with weeds.

  “Tell me, when was this place last inhabited?” Semjaza asked as they walked.

  “I believe it was last inhabited in the year 2065, sire. The war had been going for some time. That was... seventeen years ago, more or less.”

  “Numbers have power too. As you know.” Semjaza smiled as Azazel nodded. “Seventeen is a number of power. As is five. Yes, this is perfect. Now, we will rest, eat, and watch the skies to divine the meaning writ large in the stars. We will divine the perfect time to summon Gabriel here so that I may kill him.”

  “Where do you plan to confront him, sire?”

  “In the stone circle, of course.” Semjaza chuckled. “Where else?”

  Azazel nodded. “I see. Can I ask, sire, what of Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel?”

  Semjaza curled his upper lip. “They are banished. They have failed me, Azazel, and failed our choir. They will gain no rewards. I will not punish them, for they have endured much already, while in Hell. But I will not do them any favors or give them any gifts. They have chosen the silly little lives they have lived for centuries, and so they shall continue to live until the end of days.

  “If they die before the Rise of Lucifer, well, so be it.” Semjaza shrugged. “But they do not deserve anything from us.”

  Azazel nodded again. “I understand, sire.”

  Semjaza clapped Azazel’s shoulder companionably. “I am well glad you are with me, Azazel. I missed you much while I was trapped within Aquila.”

  “How did you escape, sire?” Azazel asked the question once more as the two angels started up the gentle incline that led toward the ruins of Maryhill House.

  “I studied. I listened. I watched. And when I had learned all that I could about the stars and the structure of constellations, I applied magic to the bonds that held the c
onstellation in its place in the sky. Aquila had to turn its attention to the spell I created and unleashed in order not to fall from its position. In that moment, the bonds that held the bars of my prison weakened, and I was able to use my power to blast through them and escape. A simple thing, really, but it would not have occurred to me to do it had I not learned about falling stars and the position of constellations and their relation to the planets.”

  Azazel stared at Semjaza in awe. “That’s truly amazing, sire.”

  “It is, isn’t it? I impressed myself.” Semjaza laughed. He was in good spirits now.

  The two angels rounded a bend and walked up what had once been a long drive, leading from the main route, toward the house. The trees and grass were overgrown, and there was no sign that any humans had been in the vicinity for some time. It was slow going, as the underbrush grew thick, but finally it cleared to reveal the ruins of what had once been a magnificent house.

  Semjaza pursed his lips as he gazed at the building. The shell of it was more or less intact—broken windows notwithstanding—but the roof had caved in, and there were holes in the walls large enough to drive a horse and chariot through. There was graffiti painted on the building, ugly and crude, and Semjaza frowned.

  The view, though, of the river below them, was incredible.

  “Truly, this is the work of God’s hand,” Semjaza said. “This is a beautiful vista.”

  “It is,” Azazel agreed.

  “This house must have been stunning once,” Semjaza went on. “It is sad to see it so ruined now.”

  “It was,” Azazel said. “There was a fine art collection contained here for decades.”

  “Truly?” Semjaza quirked an eyebrow. “I wonder if any of the art remains.”

  “What are you thinking of, sire?”

  “A king needs more than one house. This would be a perfect summer house. I think I will take it as mine and restore it. Ishtahar will love it here. The river is beautiful, the grounds can be beautiful again, and I am sure the house can be returned to its former glory with ease.”

  Azazel smiled. “I believe you are right, sire.”

  “Come.” Semjaza started toward the building, the doorway now nothing more than a hole in the wall, rusting hinges all that remained of the door itself. “Let us examine this house.”

  Inside, Semjaza conjured a ball of light to illuminate the ruin. He could see immediately that the promise of the outside was more than evident inside. Despite the ruined state of the house’s frame, the inside was not as badly damaged as he’d thought. The walls were scorched by fire, and paint was peeling, but the floors were still in one piece, the wood now scuffed and scratched.

  The furniture was an interesting mix of imperial Russian antiques, according to Azazel, which, Semjaza thought, were elegant enough to suit him. He was a little surprised that the furniture was still there, considering how open the building was. It was remote, though, so perhaps that was what had kept looters away. As well as the antiques, there were simple furnishings of a more modern design, lamps that he recognized as similar to the ones in Azazel’s Art Deco home in Paris, and a few rugs scattered on the floors.

  Wandering around the building, Semjaza found the different levels were in varying stages of disrepair. The bottom level opened up to an open garden overlooking the river. All that remained in that level was a single chess board and a three-legged wooden chair. The middle level contained camp beds and molding blankets, a kitchen area and bathroom roped off and covered with grime.

  Finally, Semjaza wandered outside, standing at the edge of the cliff that overlooked the Columbia River. Azazel joined him and they stood in silence for several companionable moments.

  “This place can be restored easily enough,” Semjaza said, breaking the silence. “It has a very pleasing aspect.”

  “It’s defensible too,” Azazel agreed. “I think that was part of what helped it remain mostly intact during the war.”

  “Do you know much of what it was used for during that time?” Semjaza asked.

  Azazel shook his head. “Not really. It was the border lookout between Washington state and Oregon. There was a storehouse nearby, and the demons only attacked it toward the end of the conflict when Uriel hounded them out of Seattle and chased them down the coast. There was a fight in the front gardens, I believe. Uriel destroyed the demons, but not before they’d set fire to the house and thrown bolts of power at it to try to kill all the humans within. There was some talk of there being war wounded within, but I do not know how true that is.”

  “Hm.” Semjaza mulled that over. “I suppose the residents were evacuated after Uriel’s little fight?”

  “Yes, sire. They were taken over the river to Oregon. The river’s the natural border, and the water was turned into Holy Water, to make it unpalatable to demons. Since then, no one has come here, except for a few historians or hikers.”

  “Well”—Semjaza turned to Azazel and smiled—“now it is mine, and it will be returned to its original glory.”

  “A fitting use for the home.” Azazel nodded. “I am sure your family will love it too.”

  Semjaza chuckled. “I, too, am sure of that. Ishtahar was always fond of gardening. My sons will no doubt enjoy fishing down in the river.” He looked around. “Come. Let us begin cleaning up the property.”

  “As you command, sire.”

  “FUCKING ow!” Gabriel exclaimed, clutching his left elbow with his right hand as best as he was able.

  Raziel had moved them from Iona to Yerevan, the city in Armenia where Lyudmila lived, and his choice of landing spot was a narrow space between two buildings. The space was barely two feet wide, and for four Archangels, not nearly wide enough to be comfortable. As a result, upon materializing, Gabriel had banged his funny bone on the wall.

  His eyes watered, tears of pain slipping down his cheeks as he gritted his teeth and waited for the pain and the unpleasant tingling to subside.

  “Da bao?” Michael asked, turning to face Gabriel, his expression worried.

  “’S nothing. I’m fine, just banged my elbow thanks to Raziel. You need to go back to angel school, fuck!” Gabriel swore at length.

  “You are weeping,” Michael said in alarm.

  “Well yeah, you would be too if you were in my position!” Gabriel glared at Raziel and angrily brushed the tears from his cheek. “What the fuck made you land us in an alley the size of a matchbox, you clot?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Raziel looked sheepish. “Last time I was here, this was a bit wider. I didn’t realize. I’ll move us somewhere better.”

  “No, we’ll walk out of here as if we’re perfectly normal. I’m not bloody trusting your landings for a bloody good long while, fucking hell,” Gabriel grumbled.

  “Sorry,” Raziel said again. He wiggled down the narrow embrasure to the street and stepped out, straightening his jacket. Uriel, smirking broadly at Gabriel over his shoulder, followed, then Michael, then Gabriel himself.

  No one paid them any attention. Gabriel shot Raziel a dark look as he slowly bent and stretched his arm, the pain and tingling dissipating. “Clot,” he said again. “Fucking tingling pain in my funny bone hasn’t gone away yet. And what a stupid name—it’s not in the least bit funny at all.”

  “Are you going to call me that all day?” Raziel asked. “I said I was sorry. And the name is a pun, Gabriel. You like puns, so you shouldn’t be so upset.”

  “What’s it the pun of?” Uriel asked curiously.

  “Because the pain comes from when one hits or bangs the ulnar nerve, which is by the humerus bone. The pun comes from the word humorous.”

  “Okay.” Uriel shook his head, amused.

  “Aye, aye, I am going to call you that, so? And thanks for that lesson in semantics, but it doesn’t make it any less fucking annoyingly sore, clot.” Gabriel stuck his tongue out.

  “You’re such a sooky-la-la, Gabriel,” Uriel said with a laugh.

  “How about I rearrange your face?” Gabriel
asked pleasantly. “Then you can be a bloody nanny-nanny-boo-boo.”

  “Ooh, big words, I’m so scared,” Uriel mocked.

  “You’re a pair of Neanderthalic children,” Raziel said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m surrounded by Neanderthals. Lucky me.”

  “Children,” Michael sighed, “please act your age.”

  Raziel stuck his tongue out. “Now I will.”

  Uriel, after a quick look at Raziel, shrugged and looked around the street. “Fine.”

  “Same.” Gabriel ran his hands through his hair.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “How I am not gray with the stress of dealing with my choir is a miracle. I will pray to God tonight in thanks.”

  Uriel laughed. “You’re being ridiculous, Michael.” As Michael raised an eyebrow, Uriel smirked at him. “We’re all ridiculous sometimes. It’s just how we are. We’re all too old to be perpetually serious and grim.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well, Uri?” Raziel asked. “That’s pretty astute of you.”

  “I’m experimenting with being observant about things I don’t usually care about.” Uriel pulled his cigar case from his coat pocket, removed one, and lit it. “Enjoy it, because it’s beginning to bore me.”

  Raziel laughed. “I love you.”

  “Mm, I know. Because I am damn awesome. I love you, too, just so you know.”

  “Raziel, Uriel, we are here to work,” Michael said with a long-suffering sigh. “Let us do what we came here for.”

  Raziel flipped Michael a lazy salute.

  “Okey dokey.”

  “Pardon?” Michael’s expression was bemused.

  Gabriel laughed. “He’s agreeing with you, Mishka.”

  “I... see.” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and left the subject alone. “Where is Lyudmila’s home, Raziel?”

  “A few blocks away. I didn’t want to ’port right into it. I thought it would be prudent to scope out the area first. Isn’t that what you military types advise?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” he muttered to Gabriel. “It is going to be one of those days.”

  “Aye, seems so.” Gabriel was scowling, his brow furrowed in thought.