Forsaken_Cursed Angel Watchtower 12

by Gilbert, L. B.

  “And the radio station?” Ash asked, taking a final bite.

  His aide shook his head. “Nothing yet. Sorry.”

  Ash shrugged, giving Marcus a second look. There appeared to be a few new lines around the corners of his mouth. Something else was wrong.

  “What’s troubling you? Is it the council?” Ash guessed.

  “Yes. I don’t know what they’re up to, but there’s something off with them lately. “

  Ash rubbed his forehead, irritated he had to deal with bureaucrats when something phenomenal was happening in the desert. “Well, it would have been too much to hope they would take the news of the elections well. What’s going on?”

  Marcus pursed his lips, looking at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. “Actually, they’re too cooperative. Since you saw them last, all eligible to run have been preparing for the elections and actively campaigning. The senior leaders who can’t run have handpicked successors to throw their support behind.”

  That was news. Ash sat back in his seat, scratching his head. Under other circumstances, he would have said the coming threat of elections had its intended effect—that Mazarin and the others had been scared straight. But he’d known too many politicians to believe that.

  “You think they’re trying to rig the elections?” Technically, picking a successor wasn’t against any established rules for a democratic election, but making sure they won definitely was.

  If I’d known I’d have to worry about a group of middle-aged overweight men stuffing a ballot box when I ran my sword through the demon king’s heart…

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. His short-sightedness had a solution, however. It wasn’t too late to put safeguards in place before the elections. After all, he hadn’t chosen a date for them yet.

  Ash wiped his mouth and threw his handkerchief aside. “We need to choose observers like the U.N. did back in the day.”

  “The what?”

  “The United Nations,” he clarified.

  Marcus stared at him blankly, the gulf between them highlighted like never before. His aide had no concept of a nation beyond the borders of this one city. The idea of a nation made up of many such cities was alien enough. But the concept of multiple countries, each with its own identity and language acting independently or in collaboration, was too radical a concept for today’s conversation.

  “I’ll explain what that was later,” Ash said. “For now, let’s focus on ensuring that every citizen of Bastille has the opportunity to vote, privately and free from intimidation. More importantly, we need to make sure those votes aren’t tampered with.”

  Marcus’ expression cleared. “The observers will do that by watching over the counts. So we must choose men who can be trusted to act for the people’s good, not the politicians’.”

  “Exactly. But more than that, these safeguards should have a certain degree of redundancy.” An image of a burning gold gaze rose in his mind. “We need women.”

  The comical confusion on his aide’s face almost made Ash laugh aloud. “There are trustworthy women in every district, are there not?”

  “Oh…you mean as observers. Of course there are!” Marcus laughed shortly, wiping his face to conceal his embarrassment.

  Ash pretended not to notice his aide’s chagrin. “Pick the least likely person—male or female—in each district to observe in secret. The politicians can’t bribe them if they don’t know their identity.”

  His aide puffed up. “None of the people I choose would dare to accept a bribe, I promise.”

  Ash loved Marcus’ optimism. But he’d been a student of human nature for too long. “I’m sure they wouldn’t, but how far would Mazarin or any of his ilk go to keep their fingers in the pot?”

  Marcus deflated in his seat.

  Ash clapped his aide on the back in response to the man’s crestfallen expression. “I’m also going to need you to pick an appropriate venue in every district, one everyone has access to. If the old or infirm can’t make it to the designated polling place, a representative of our election team will go to them to collect it.”

  “Yes, my lord. I take it you’ll be in the wasteland while I make these arrangements?”

  “On and off. I’ll keep my trips shorter this time around.” There was no point in longer ones now that his identity was exposed. “If anything big happens, I’ll hear the klaxon, even deep underground. If there’s an issue you think is significant enough to require my personal attention, send up our signal. I’ll come straight back.”

  The bulk of his time would probably be spent trying to find the group again. No doubt they had decamped to parts unknown, but maybe he’d get lucky and find Kara with a team of scavengers. He needed an audience with the lady herself, although it wouldn’t hurt to get some of the others on his side if he could.

  That’s a big if. Theo probably hated him. The thought made guilt flare in his breast. Angels just weren’t cut out for subterfuge.

  Marcus nodded, checking the notes in front of him before pressing the pad to his chest and rising. “I think that’s all I needed. I wish you luck, my lord. I don’t envy you your task.”

  “Really?” Ash smirked. “Stab wound aside, you’re the one with the unpleasant job. You have to deal with the council.”

  Marcus’ expression clouded, but then he grinned. “You may be right. I should ask for hazard pay.” The moment of levity took years off his aide’s face.

  He should always look like that. Which made Ash wonder. How much had Marcus given up to devote his life to him, and to Bastille?

  Ash put a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “All joking aside… when I said we needed women, the look on your face told me you hadn’t thought about such a thing in years. You’re not a priest, and I don’t require your vow of chastity. Don’t let the work we do get in the way of your other needs and desires.”

  Was that a blush? With Marcus’ tan, it was difficult to tell. “I’m not—not intentionally,” his aide said. “But the work we do is so important I never seem to have time for socializing. With my hours, it’s hard to imagine finding a partner who would accept seeing me so little.”

  “The right woman would understand,” Ash assured him. “And might I add, quite selfishly, that Bastille will need more people like you if it’s going to flourish. Say the word, and I can delegate some of your tasks to another if it means having a Marcus Junior waiting in the wings.”

  Marcus dropped his gaze. “I’m…I’m not sure I would choose a woman if there was anyone.”

  “Huh.” Ash blinked stupidly before finding his tongue. “Believe it or not, the powers that be don’t really care what your family looks like or who you build it with. That’s just something the interpreters of His word have added to further their own agendas. As for children, it’s what you teach them that counts. Whether they’re your blood—that’s not important.”

  Marcus huffed a laugh. “Yours isn’t a popular opinion. There are some who say we brought the demons and the curse on ourselves because of the sin of pederasty.”

  Ash growled. “Yet another thing I’ve been lax about. I hate the idea of policing other people’s interpretations of His word, but anyone spreading that kind of divisive rhetoric is going to answer to me.”

  “Shall I add that to your list?” Marcus teased.

  Ash closed his eyes. In his mind’s eyes, that list now stretched to the horizon. “Yes. Please do.”

  Once the city was free of the curse, he’d redouble his efforts in education. By the time he was done, Bastille would be a beacon of freedom and learning in the world.

  Then reality set it. The minute this land was set to rights, he’d be recalled to Heaven. The city would have to manage without him, or any angel interference. That was His design.

  It could still work out. Whoever ended the Firehorse curse was going to deserve more than one boon as reward. After his exile was officially ended, he could demand visitation rights from Raphael.

  And as long as Kara
is around, it will very likely be denied.

  The Heavenly Host wasn’t stupid. They’d wonder why he’d want visitation rights after going to such lengths to end his exile.

  Yet another thing I’ll have to deal with later. He hadn’t broken the curse yet—and if he didn’t get moving, he never would.

  A few minutes later, he parted from Marcus. He struck out for the wasteland. This time, he was resplendent in angelic armor. He didn’t plan on engaging in combat, but he wouldn’t put it past Sij to greet him with an arrow to the heart.

  His concern was unwarranted. The catacomb chambers previously occupied by the band were empty. They’d had plenty of time to clear out, but Ash was still surprised not to find a trail to follow.

  Something about that was off. An angel’s tracking abilities were second to none. He should have been able to pick up any trail, no matter how cold it had grown.

  And yet, he wasn’t picking up magic, at least not in the quantities he would have expected for a bonafide concealment spell.

  He wandered the tunnels, stumbling on an ossuary damaged by an earthquake. Picking through the bones, he wondered if the remains of so many dead were messing with his senses. Even a demon would be affected by this many skeletons.

  The dead had their own power.

  Cutting his losses, Ash left the subterranean passages to search from the air. Hours went by as he scanned the edge of the wasteland for signs of the group, checking every steam vent for traces of cooking smoke. Aside from some unpleasant sulfur vents, there was nothing of note.

  He was close to giving up for the day when he saw it. A splash of olive green interrupted the monotonous beige and rust of the wasteland soil.

  Ash swooped down, his heart somewhere around his knees. It was a tree—an unexpectedly lush one. And it was growing in the wasteland.

  This part of Bastille, the region beyond the makeshift border wall, had been devastated by the original Collision spell that divided this continent from all the others. But Amducious had wanted to make sure no one could survive out here on their own.

  If they’d had the means, his minions would have salted the earth. Since that hadn’t been possible, the demon horde had despoiled the land with a series of earth-shifting spells so no food could ever grow here again.

  To add insult to injury, this area became a toxic dumping ground for their waste. It was totally barren, devoid, and incapable of supporting life. Not even fungus or lichen could grow, and those resilient organisms could thrive in the most extreme environments.

  The tree stood in complete contradiction to everything he knew. Ash knelt, touching the rough bark almost as if he needed to convince himself it was real.

  “Etz haChayim.” It meant the Tree of Life in the old tongue.

  The trunk was bent and slightly gnarled, but it arched in an elegant conformation, brushing the sky with a graceful sweep of limb and boughs. It was crowned with a carpet of thick leaves like the bonsai trees he cultivated before the Collision.

  What was it doing here? How had it survived?

  Still unclear about the meaning of it, he bowed his head and prayed. He may have been an angel, but it wasn’t all that common to witness a miracle—especially when exiled on earth for a few millennia.

  Crossing himself, he kissed his fingers and rose, tears stinging in his eyes.

  Wait.

  Ash stood slowly, pivoting on his heel. He knew where he was.

  The line of the horizon and the boulders just to the left of the ravine were unchanged. The tips of his wings brushed the rusty soil at his feet as he spun in a slow circle, his throat tightening.

  Years of seeing it again in his nightmares had imprinted this hellish spot in his mind. He was back where he’d committed his greatest sin. This was the exact spot where he’d abandoned the Delavordo girl all those years ago.

  14

  What was that old definition of madness? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?

  Ash had traversed the same twenty or so square miles repeatedly since finding what he now referred to as the Arbor Vitae.

  The tree was not the only plant growing in the vicinity. He’d found a stunted little cactus with a deep red fruit crown over its spiky and thick fleshy lobes. There was also something that resembled mesquite beans. They were growing in a shadowed crevice near a trickle of water running between two stones halfway down the slope.

  The plants resembled flora native to France, but they’d evolved from their pre-Collision form into a useful edible. They had somehow adapted to grow in the barren environment of the wasteland.

  But there was no explanation for this dramatic change.

  Lord in Heaven, what does it mean? He cast his gaze upward, willing his maker to send him some guidance—a sign, anything. But there was nothing.

  He kicked a rock. Why is there never a burning bush when you need one?

  Ash was so engrossed in his search for clues that he almost missed Marcus’ signal.

  It was a system they had rigged up years ago. As the warden of Bastille, Ash was required to traverse the length of the city and the fields they’d cultivated to the west, just inside the border walls. A klaxon was well and good for a disaster, but there were other non-life-threatening emergencies requiring his attention.

  The signal itself was simple. Bastille had many foundries. One of the oldest and least used was in the city center. It was still active enough to have chimneys billowing smoke every day, but there was one that was never lit for metalwork. It was a small one that belonged to an unused office, one that, for reasons unknown to anyone but Marcus and himself, was well-stocked with kindling. Only the fuel they burned wasn’t the standard used across the city. This was weed gathered specifically for its distinctive smoke. It burned white with a blue tinge. The color wasn’t dramatically different, not enough for anyone unaware of the difference to take note.

  Ash inhaled hard and took flight. He hadn’t been making any progress anyway.

  He met Marcus on the roof of the foundry. His aide had been pacing a track in the worn shingled roof.

  “What’s wrong?” Ash asked. The lines on his aide’s face were deeper than normal.

  “We have a situation. A very serious one. Only, I can’t prove it—or I’ve lost my mind.” Marcus rubbed his face with his hands. “I really don’t know anymore.”

  Okay, Ash was definitely overworking the poor man. “I trust your instincts,” he said. “Tell me what you do know.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I’ve been preparing for the elections. I put together teams of observers, both the public and covert ones, and began to search for places where everyone can vote.”

  He stopped, waiting for his acknowledgment. Ash waved him on, trying not to betray his impatience.

  “I was looking at a few buildings in the ninth arrondissement.”

  Hmm. “Tulloch’s old district.” A factotum had taken over council duties there temporarily, until the elections, but the man was also a baker so oversight was minimal.

  “Yes. One location I scouted was a former community center. I thought it would be a good place because it’s central, but the air was unhealthy—too much mold. The second possibility was an abandoned lycée, a former high school. Though it was not as convenient, the building was in better shape. It even had a working water pump. I decided on the school and sent a few people to clean the old gymnasium, but over half asked to be reassigned. They kept hearing strange noises from under the floorboards. Rumors of it being haunted began to spread. When I investigated further, I found this was a widespread rumor and not a new one at that.”

  “The citizens of Bastille are a superstitious lot.” It was an unfortunate side-effect to having a populace who knew angels and demons existed.

  True ghosts were rare. The vast majority of human spirits were eager to leave this plane for Heaven. Those souls headed in the other direction were swiftly claimed by reaper demons. The latter were respons
ible for most of the mischief associated with hauntings.

  There was a certain class of sub-demon, ones too low to have a body, that amused themselves by scaring the piss out of anyone who came across them. Most were too weak to do real damage, but the highly intelligent ones could trick people into hurting themselves.

  Marcus, aware of the truth of this, nodded emphatically. “Yes, well, I know how important your negotiations in the wasteland are, so I went to take a quick look on my own. I planned on asking you to come and bless the building if I confirmed a haunting.”

  Comfortable with the knowledge Marcus could handle himself, Ash nodded in appreciation. “And?”

  Marcus tapped the table. “Apparently, this school had a basement. The front end was full of debris and old unused furniture, but the back…”

  He looked at Ash and squeezed his eyes shut hard. “It was dark, and there were voices. Human voices—not some weak lower demon whispering obscenities. It was people. But I couldn’t get to them. There was a heavy iron door in between.”

  “You couldn’t pick the lock?” Ash had found that such a useful skill, he’d made sure the men under his command could open a basic padlock.

  Marcus shook his head. “It was too complicated to open without proper tools. But the noise I made attracted their attention—at least, I think they could hear me.”

  “Who was it?”

  His aide threw up his hands. “I don’t know. My knocking got a faint response. But I could have sworn one of the voices was calling for help.” He passed a hand through his hair roughly. “I hurried back here for my tools. But when I returned to the school, the door was open. The room behind it was small and empty.” He broke off, his brows drawing together. “And that is confusing. If a person had been speaking, they would have been behind that door as close to me as you are now. I would have heard them clearly.”