A Rosary of Stones and Thorns

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Stephen watched, fascinated through the combination of bleary exhaustion and sudden wariness that clouded his mind. “Maybe. You’d be surprised the kind of people you find in the priesthood. Not all of them have God first on their minds.”

  “You do,” Mephistopheles said, stopping to look at him with intent amber eyes. “I see it in you.”

  “Yeah, well. I try to do well by people. That’s what I care about.”

  “There are easier ways to do that then in the priesthood.”

  Stephen rolled his thumb around the lip of the glass. “Not tonight, Mephistopheles. Please. I don’t know… if I could say anything—say it right—with so many things going on. God loves us, we suffer, we might be snuffed out forever, Satan’s a good guy, God’s Champion a bigot, Jesus is dead,” his voice cracked, “And everyone I know is going to Hell. It’s too much. I’m too small in it.”

  Mephistopheles massaged the wing-arm with probing fingers. He worked the kink out of it, ignoring the fiery complaints of the healing muscle on his back. “Are you familiar with the original definition of the atom, Stephen?”

  The priest looked up, cleared his throat. “You mean Democritus’s? The building block of all matter, the invisible, indivisible and ultimate particle?”

  “That one.”

  Stephen canted his head. “Yes, I know it. We still haven’t found it yet.”

  “I could tell you what it is.”

  The priest leaned forward. “I bet you could, given what Lucifer does to get you around.” He managed a grin. “That would put me down in history, too, if I could prove it. Granted a history to be put down in.”

  Mephistopheles let his wing drop carefully. “So you want to know the smallest indivisible building block of God’s creation?”

  “Yes!”

  The demon leaned forward. “One. Human. Soul.”

  Stephen’s breath stopped in his throat.

  “That’s it. You are the smallest thing that God notices, Stephen. You are the smallest thing that warrants His personal attention. The plants and animals of this world do not need Him; they know Him already. Only humans have become separate enough from one another and from God that each individual can lift his or her eyes to the sky and question and doubt and love. Trust me when I say that you loom very large compared to the weight of the universe. You may feel small, but that’s a lie your mind tells your heart.”

  Stephen met his eyes, and for the first time let them rest there, let the demon stare into him as he stared back. Far from disturbing him, he found the unblinking regard reassuring.

  Standing, Stephen said, “I’ll try and rest.”

  “We have a long day ahead.”

  Stephen tilted his head. “Do we?”

  Mephistopheles chuckled softly. “Oh yes. I’ve no gift for prophecy to tell you what we’ll be doing, but we’ll be doing something.”

  Stephen grinned. “I guess that’ll have to do. Good night, Mephistopheles.”

  “God to your dreaming.”

  The priest paused at the arch to the living room. “And to yours.”

  “He is never far from it,” Mephistopheles murmured.

  Stephen returned to the dark living room. On a whim, he stopped above the couch where Brad snored peacefully. His eyes picked out the curve of a jaw just dusted with stubble, a lock of hair obscuring a brow crinkled in sleep—an endearing combination of gawky limbs and growing strength. Stephen thought of the battle Michael was forcing, and one hand clenched against his side.

  He returned to the other couch and slept despite himself; but if God was in his dreams he did not remember His passing.

  Chapter Eleven

  The grackle banked on a gentle breeze and fell into a circular pattern above a low, long building that hugged the ground beside an open lake. A dull smoldering in the east accompanied a faint temperature change in the winds, and it dropped toward the ground.

  The door was open so it glided inside, leaving contrails of mist in the wet, soft air. Inside, rows and rows of stalls stood empty; it flew past them, homing in on the scent and sounds at the end. There, in four stalls each thrice the size of the others, were four horses, red, black, white and yellow.

  Lighting on the largest stall door, the grackle eyed the black horse. Its smooth nose dipped down, and it stared back without any of the flightiness of a true horse. Satisfied, the grackle dropped to the stall’s simple lock and pecked at the bar until it fell through the hole and onto the straw.

  When it had liberated all four, the grackle hopped onto the black one’s shoulder. They had an understanding.

  The stable doors burst open beneath the steel-hard hooves of the dark stallion. From a cloud of splinters, the four horses surged forth.

  The sound of footsteps on the stone stairs pierced Gabriel’s starved reverie. He glanced up from the veils of incense and the empty nests, waiting to see who would join him.

  No spheres remained in this place to give birth to new angels. Not since the one that had died in his arms, her glitter mixed with the rising plumes of heavy smoke. It had seemed appropriate to remain here in the silence. His realm, Shamayim, had withered beneath the brunt of its camps. He had no desire to leave, no purpose to spur him.

  “Gabriel?” Raphael’s shape gathered definition through the fog, his feet scraping against the dark brown rock. “Are you here?”

  “Here,” Gabriel answered, his voice rusty, clogged with dust and glitter. He cleared it. “Here, Raphael.”

  The archangel changed direction, ducking beneath an arch and down the steps into the nest area. He was stroking something in his hand. His voice had an oddly unfocused timbre. “Gabriel... there’s no reason to stay here. It’s over.”

  “It will not be over until we understand why, Raphael,” Gabriel answered. He remained seated, wings arched on either side of the stone column he used as a backrest. “I am surprised it does not haunt you, too.”

  “It is no use. I am God’s servant—it is His will.” Raphael stopped in front of him. He was caressing a feather with nervous fingers. “But Michael plans to attack tonight, and it’s already morning. You should come.”

  “Why? To lend the illusion of my approval to something I cannot condone? You ask me to betray my heart, Raphael.”

  “Are you betraying your heart? Or God’s?” Raphael’s voice lacked any tone. “We are about to end the war. You should be there.”

  “End the war? Or resume it?”

  “End it forever. Forever and ever and ever again. No more death or dying. No more need for healers.”

  “At what cost?” Gabriel sighed. “Michael doesn’t need another henchman, Raphael. He needs a good clout on the head.”

  Raphael shrugged. “Then come and do it, if you feel that way.”

  “It’s too late for it.” Gabriel folded his hands together and looked down at the floor. “He doesn’t care about any of our opinions. He won’t until he sees what he’s done wrong, and by that time nothing will set it right.” He turned, noticed finally Raphael’s strange distraction. “Raphael? What’s wrong? What is that thing you’re playing with, anyway?”

  “A feather off the girl. Michael had her crucified. It was God’s will, of course. Most peculiar thing, this feather. It fell off her wings, just like that, as if it had rotted out of the socket. It wasn’t one of the ones we pulled... we just did the secondaries, you see. No, this one came off by itself. And she had some missing already. Yes... as if it had rotted right off.”

  Gabriel stood so abruptly the room spun. He grabbed Raphael’s shoulder. “What did you say?”

  Raphael looked away and replied, “Michael had one of the Ninth crucified for attempting to betray us to the Fallen. They hung her on the cross at false dawn and took her down several hours afterwards.”

  Gabriel stared at the feather. “Tell me it wasn’t the same one he pushed off the cliff. Raphael... tell me it wasn’t her!”

  “Who else?”

  Gabriel turned from Raphael, covering his
face with his hands as the ground dropped from beneath his feet. He could see her face vividly, the long strands of red-gold hair in disarray over thin white arms spread obscenely in the rays of the dawning sun. His mind inserted every detail, from the delicate spray of her white fingers to her wings, arched and...

  “What do you mean, rotted?”

  Raphael held up the feather. “You can see it, just barely. It’s powdered off, just as if the tissue had died and returned to Heaven’s substance. Funny thing. How do you heal something like that, do you suppose? I wouldn’t know.”

  Gabriel stared wildly at the nest where the angel had died, drowning in her own fluid. “My God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God, Raphael... what have we done!”

  “I don’t suppose it can be healed... I could be wrong, though. Yes, that could be it—”

  Gabriel plucked the feather from Raphael’s hands. “Where is she? Where did they take her? Answer me!”

  “I think they were going to deliver her back to the Betrayer.”

  “To Hell... no! She’ll die there!”

  Raphael frowned. “Die? But she is dead, or close enough. It is God’s will. We are His servants. Aren’t we? Does it matter to you, Gabriel? It shouldn’t.”

  “But it does... it does! If we can just get to her in time,” Gabriel said, running back up the stairs and grabbing his cloak.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To start fixing what we’ve broken.” He flung the cloak between his wings and ran down the steps. In his mind he could see it where he’d left it, glowing on the stand beside his bed: her halo.

  Lucifer stared at the fireplace in his chambers, warming the brandy with the base of his palm. The first stark rays of the false sun of Hell were shedding light on a cold, ashen day. The ceiling of the cavern outside had no clouds, but the sun itself shifted in tune to unpredictable moods. Today it had chosen to be dull.

  He wore the sword.

  It had been centuries since he’d strapped it on, so long in fact since he’d touched it that he’d never bothered to unbuckle the scabbard from the belt. He’d dreamed of it and bloodied crosses and the Wind ripping souls asunder, and had awakened, shuddering, to the smell of her feathers, still hidden in the satin folds of his sheets. And he’d gone to the chest at the foot of the bed, unlocked it, gathered the sword from the pillows there and belted it on.

  One of the Princes had reported that his Fallen were slipping away in ones and twos through the rift, down to Earth where Michael was gathering his legion. They meant it as a sign of their loyalty to him, and Lucifer’s heart clenched at their devotion... and the senselessness of it all. He did not want to fight Michael. He did not want any more human souls to die, or any angelic souls to be snuffed like candles drowned in their own wax.

  He stared at the fireplace, breathed in the bouquet of the brandy and sipped, still playing with the idea of calling them all back.

  A brisk knock at his door interrupted the silence. Lucifer turned, ruffling his wings. “Yes?”

  The guard stepped inside. “My lord, there are messengers here from Heaven to see you.”

  “I would be surprised indeed if they were here to see the sights instead,” Lucifer said dryly, placing the brandy on the table. “Let them in.”

  The guard stepped back for two angels, one with his hand haughtily braced on his belt, the other more retiring behind, holding a large rug. The larger one stepped forward.

  “In his mercy and wisdom, the Archangel Michael, Champion of God and Protector of the Innocent has decided to extend one last chance to you, to offer yourself to him in surrender absolute. He promises that only you will suffer if your people repent and return to God’s ways.”

  “And in his arrogance, Michael has told you that his way is God’s way, is that it?” Lucifer said. “What would happen if I said yes to his generous offer?”

  “You would surrender your person to him tonight at the place of his choosing, where you will be punished before your people are allowed back into God’s grace.”

  “Enchanting,” Lucifer murmured, then lifted his voice. “And if I said no?”

  “Then the Champion of God would storm your very walls and crush your little dimension around you, with everyone still inside. He will bring the battle to you if you do not come out and fight, and he will extinguish this blight on the face of God’s creation forever!”

  Lucifer said nothing.

  The messenger’s chest swelled. “I see you doubt the power of the Archangel! Well, he has sent us with a very special message for you.”

  Lucifer lifted his head slowly.

  “Your attempt to infiltrate Heaven and sabotage our operations has failed miserably. You should have known better than to try the Archangel’s patience—”

  Lucifer straightened, beginning to shake.

  “—But he has thoughtfully returned your operative to you!” The messenger snapped his fingers, and the angel behind him unrolled the rug. A body slid down it in streaks of golden blood and shed feathers to lie crumpled at his feet. Tangled red-gold locks spread in a burst of color against the drained-gray stone; white limbs, frayed and marked, white wings at unnatural angles, white chiton reduced to a few strips that hid none of the golden and bronze bruises and slashes.

  Lucifer dropped to his knees beside her, hands lighting on her shoulder, on her hip. “Asrial,” he whispered. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing, pressed his fingers to her chest and felt the labored, agonized crawl of her heart. “Asrial...!”

  His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and it sang as it leaped from the scabbard, blade still stained dull bronze with the blood of a war long past. “Get. Out.”

  The angels stared at him, shocked at the menace in his voice, at the smooth ease of the blade’s air-tracing.

  “GET OUT, DAMN YOU!” Lucifer lunged, sword slicing toward the nearest one, and both angels bolted. He did not give chase; her ragged heartbeat chained him to her. He flung himself around to face the guard.

  “Sir, I’ll find them!”

  “Go. Make sure they don’t come back.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The guard ran out the door. Lucifer realized belatedly his ambiguous command could result in the death of the messengers, but he didn't care. Sheathing the sword, he kneeled again beside Asrial, slid his hands beneath her body and cradled her to his chest.

  “Why did they bring you here?” he whispered. “I don’t think even my presence can keep you from dying, here....”

  Her labored breathing tore at his ears. He shut it out and strode to his bedroom, depositing her on his mounded blankets. He forced himself to examine her body before covering her. They’d beaten her; that much was obvious from the bronze and gold of the contusions laced across her body. Both wings had broken twice, once at their primary joint and once at the shoulder. The tapestry of feathers had been stripped almost entirely of her secondaries, a shocking, gaping lack.

  But none of it prepared him for discovery of the neat hole, crusted with citrine-gold, drilled through her delicate palm, separating the thin bones of her small hand. The skin of her wrist had frayed to the flesh in an almost decorative pattern. He checked the other hand, then her feet.

  Like the human who had parted them from one another forever. Michael remembered that much... if not the details. Naturally he had gotten the details wrong. When had he ever bothered to look closely enough to a human to see his wounds?

  When the world stopped spinning, Lucifer gently tucked his blankets up to her frail collar bones and slumped into a chair beside the bed. He sat vigil with his fingers laced together. They bruised from the force necessary to keep them from the hilt of the sword.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chris had tried to sleep after the priest’s departure and spent the subsequent two hours with the green glow of the alarm clock’s numbers reflected on her staring eyes. At four-thirty she gave up and dragged the box out from under the bed, then kneeled on the carpet in the middle of the room. She tore
the knot from the ribbon and threw the cover off the box. The cool breeze from the open window tousled her hair and ruffled the edges of the loose papers inside.

  She seized on the framed picture near the top of the pile, baring her teeth. Coworkers laughing at a picnic. She flung it aside and rifled through the box. Photographs. Drawings painstakingly etched with crayons. Charity awards. Her Confirmation certificate. At some point she stopped looking at them and simply sat in the middle of her bitter memories, grinding her teeth.

  Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.

  “There’s a demon downstairs. In my kitchen.”

  No one was listening, but Chris went on. It had been a long time since she’d felt overwrought enough to talk to herself... and all she could do was repeat. “There’s a demon downstairs in my kitchen. In my kitchen. A demon.”

  The flutter of wings at the windowsill pulled her eyes from the security badge she’d worn at the hospital. There was a black bird there, a sleek one with iridescent plumage and a yellow eye.

  “A demon,” she told it.

  It cocked its head.

  “A demon in my kitchen. He says there’s a God.”

  It seemed far more acceptable to talk to a bird than to herself. People talked to animals all the time. Chris said, “But I stopped believing in God a long time ago.”

  The bird clacked its beak, and Chris frowned. “There can’t be a God. There is no God!”

  The words had too much weight; the bitterness of the years that had produced them betrayed them. Chris sighed. She stood, retying the sash around her waist, and cautiously approached the window. The bird mantled its black feathers, but did not fly away.

  “You’re plucky, aren’t you? Don't you get scared?"

  The bird said nothing, only canted its head again, then hopped around to face the other direction. Drawn as if by the force of inevitability, Chris looked out the window.

  There were four horses on her lawn. Horses.