Forsaken_Cursed Angel Watchtower 12

by Gilbert, L. B.

  “It could be a lower demon after all,” Ash suggested. Though most were stupid, there were always exceptions. A crafty one could have turned Marcus around.

  “I would have thought so, except for one thing. The door,” he said. “It was old, but the lock was new—as if were added recently.”

  * * *

  Ash knelt to examine the lock. It was just as Marcus said. It was one of the sturdiest made in town, the kind used to protect their grain silos and the livestock barns in the Pigalle area. It was also new, manufactured within the last year or two.

  There was also something Marcus hadn’t noticed about the door. The hinges looked out of place. The edges didn’t match the grooves in the doorjamb, as if the whole thing had been moved from another location. They had also been oiled.

  A careful examination of the room beyond with his excellent night vision revealed a hidden access panel in a dark corner. Ash squeezed through it to find himself in a rough sub-basement room.

  Great. Back in the catacombs, was his first thought.

  But he was wrong. The sub-basement didn’t lead to the warren beneath the city. Instead, it dead-ended in a midsized room down a short hallway.

  One glance was enough to kindle a cold anger in his gut. Not wanting to believe what he was seeing, he knelt, picking up one end of a pair of manacles. It was attached to the wall with a crudely hammered spike.

  There were two other pairs.

  Someone had turned this room into a prison. And judging from the fresh excrement in the corner, it had been recently occupied.

  * * *

  Ash tore through the city like a man demented. He’d never experienced rage like this. Not even in battle, when his blood lust had taken over, enabling him to mow down large swaths of the demon horde.

  No, this was different. This was people. They may not have been the same ones he’d fallen to protect, but since taking up Raphael’s cause, he’d devoted everything to the people of Bastille. He’d bled for them. And now, they had betrayed him. Someone had been keeping captives without his knowledge or consent.

  It’s not all of them, he reminded himself. That prison had been in a secret basement room for a reason.

  His immediate thought had been to raze the council’s chamber at the Petit Palais down to the ground. But he didn’t know if one or more of the council members were behind this.

  Despite his best efforts, violence was still a part of Bastille. When people were hungry and supplies were scarce, fights inevitably broke out. Theft and other crimes still plagued the city, particularly in the poorest arrondissements. They did keep a small handful of prisoners, but never for very long.

  Murders were rare, and the perpetrators were executed as soon as he had proof of their crimes. It was the only capital punishment in the city, one he hadn’t carried out in years.

  I may have to change that. Keeping prisoners without his knowledge or consent was the deepest betrayal. But first, he needed proof. He had to know if there were other prisoners.

  Ash began to hunt in earnest, tearing in and out of abandoned buildings. He targeted the out-of-the-way places people could move in and out of without being seen.

  In a city with thousands of abandoned and derelict buildings, the possibilities for hidden prisons were legion. Deductive reasoning might have saved a few hours of search, but self-righteous anger fueled his wings. It took hours for his brute-force technique to yield results.

  The captives were being held in a small attic room at the edge of the Bercy neighborhood close to where the Bois de Vincennes used to be. There were two of them, a young man and much older woman, grey-haired and painfully thin.

  The young man was terrified to see him. He crawled away, pressing close to the wall and gibbering nonsensically when Ash entered the room. The frail old woman was too weak to react.

  He went to the female first, breaking the thin shackle that fixed her to the wall. She blinked cloudy opalescent eyes at him. Cataracts must have obscured most of her vision, but she still recognized him. A deep shudder racked her skeletal frame.

  “Please. Have mercy,” she begged.

  “I’m taking you out of here,” he said, careful to keep his voice low and even despite the rage burning in his chest.

  How dare anyone do this to one of his charges?

  He lifted the crone. She was too light, as if her bones were filled with pockets of air, like a bird. If she had been given food, it was barely enough to keep her alive.

  “Who did this to you?” he asked.

  Did they think the wrath of Heaven was a joke? Someone was going to answer for this.

  The rheumy eyes clouded further, with confusion. “You did.”

  15

  Ash was back on his Belleville balcony, brooding as he fixed his gaze in the direction of the Petit Palais. He fingered the broken manacle Marcus had just handed to him before crushing it to dust. It fell to the floor in a little river of gunmetal grey powder.

  “How many more?” He turned around, helmet in hand.

  Marcus, who’d been standing behind him, waiting, eyed the dust on the floor a touch nervously.

  “Seven, including the two you found. We found the rest in Bel-Air, in a blind old man’s basement. He rented it out in exchange for food to a woman calling herself Mary. Other than her voice, which was new to him, he has no way of identifying her. He never bothered to ask for a family name.”

  Ash banged the helmet on the balcony ledge. “It wouldn’t have been the real one, anyway. They had covered their tracks well,” he said, turning to face his aide. “And it’s what we thought?”

  “Yes, they are all related to a victim of the curse. The woman and young man you found are both maternal relatives to the same Firehorse—Sarafina Ducatte, the one who took down the Pantheon in the Latin Quarter.”

  Ash nodded, remembering. “That was one I lost to the mob.”

  Marcus shuffled on his feet. “We can’t be certain of that. Her body could have been crushed by the pillar. The entire neighborhood was in shambles after the earthquake. It could have been the curse itself.”

  Ash appreciated Marcus’ ability to give his fellow man the benefit the doubt, but it was more likely the pillar had been pushed on the girl. Now her relatives were being hounded and imprisoned by their fellow man.

  In my name. His hands formed fists.

  The fiery vengeance of the Old Testament was too distant a memory. The people of Bastille had forgotten what he was. They needed a refresher. But he didn’t know who to give it to.

  “None of the prisoners saw anything useful?”

  Marcus threw himself down in a chair, resentment and frustration driving him to break his self-imposed formality. “All the assailants wore masks, and none of the victims could identify them by their voice. Most of them were taken from their beds. They were confused and disoriented during the kidnapping. We can’t be sure the council was involved.”

  He was right of course. There wasn’t a tie to them directly, but Ash was done playing the fool. He turned, putting on his helmet and spreading his wings.

  “What are you going to do?” Marcus asked, his voice uncertain.

  Ash looked back at him. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

  He shot through the air, beating his wings with the force of all his anger. The fading sunlight bounced off the shining metal of his armor. He didn’t usually move this fast. Below him, people stopped in the streets and pointed. He must have looked like a comet streaking through the sky.

  The long windows on the west wing of the Petit Palais had been one of the few pre-Collision glazing works to survive the dedicated destruction of the demon horde. The glass had survived hundreds of years intact, a testament to the glaziers of the early twentieth century. Their hard work stood—right up until the point Ash burst through the central window of the council chamber in a blaze of fiery sunlight.

  The frescoes on the arched ceiling above them buzzed and vibrated, raining dust on the remains of the me
al littering the long table. He noted the food was simpler than the decadence of days past, but it was too little too late.

  Reaching underneath, he flipped the table, hurling it with such force it shattered against the marble and plaster walls in an explosion of splintered wood.

  The council members present, eight in all including Mazarin and Devos, scattered, running for the exit as fast as their human feet would carry them.

  It wasn’t fast enough.

  He flashed in front of them, grabbing the one closest—Ragot—by the neck.

  “You have broken faith with me,” he bit out, shaking the pudgy man like a rag doll. “All of you.”

  “My lord, we’ve done everything you asked,” Ragot sputtered. “The elections—”

  “The elections are off.”

  As usual, it was Mazarin who recovered first. “Why, my lord? I don’t understand what possible reason you have to remove us with such little civil—abruptness,” he said, catching himself before making the grievous error of outright insolence.

  “All we’ve ever done is serve our people,” he added, infusing just the right touch of injured pride to his unctuous protest.

  “You count false imprisonment among your accomplishments?” he snarled, dropping the greasy Ragot in a heap on the floor. “Seven innocent citizens locked away and left to rot in my name.”

  Dust rained down as the ceiling vibrated with the force of his bellow.

  Ragot scrambled away, rushing behind the knot of others rooted to the floor a few yards in front of him, cowering to hide from his sight.

  “But, my lord, we have nothing to do with those prisons! We just learned of them ourselves when you did,” Klein said. “It’s a tragedy and misguided, but it’s not fair to hold us responsible when we weren’t even away it was going on. Clearly, some of our people have gone rogue.”

  He drew himself up to his full height. “Fear of the Firehorse is too deeply ingrained. It permeates all levels of our society and is why the mob murders those unfortunate enough to be tainted by the curse. Some could argue this is more humane—not that I ever would. Imprisonment of innocents can never be justified. But I do understand why some of our citizens have acted on this fear, particularly when you’ve been absent for such lengthy periods.”

  He broke off, glancing at Mazarin, who was frantically signaling him to stop. His crafty black eyes turned back to him, waiting to see if he would swallow their excuses.

  Not this time.

  Ash advanced on them. “How dare you presume to lecture me on the Firehorse? Me—the one who freed you from demon rule, who is doing everything to break the curse.”

  “So you still believe there’s a way to undo it?” Jolly, the most junior member of the council, asked, hope lighting his eyes.

  “I do.”

  “And the answer is in the wasteland?” Mazarin questioned, genuine curiosity in his eyes. “The whole city has seen you flying away, leaving to roam the outskirts. We’re curious. What could be so important when there’s an entire city beckoning for your aid?”

  Putain. He knew his movements weren’t secret, but Ash would be damned if he was about to share his motivations.

  “What I do and where I do it is not for you to question, mortal,” he snapped, raising his voice an octave. The broken glass on the floor reverberated. He’d had enough of being dragged into pointless discussions, enough of politicians entirely.

  “Even if the kidnappings can’t be tied to you, it is still your failure. This crime was carried out in your arrondissements. As their representative, you were responsible for the lives of all your followers. By allowing these people to be scapegoated, you abdicated that responsibility. Now pick up this mess and go home. You won’t be coming back.”

  The more intelligent council members began to scramble to the table’s wreckage. Even Mazarin shuffled over, leaning to pick up a token amount of debris.

  When he felt he was a safe distance away, he called out to Ash. “My lord, what about the elections?”

  Furious, Ash closed the distance between them with a snap of his wings. He stopped so suddenly Mazarin was startled into falling on his well-padded arse.

  “I said they were off,” he said, his voice resonating with a trace of angelic resonance. “None of you are eligible to serve. Nor are your acolytes. I will appoint the next representatives for each arrondissement.” His wings beat the air, sending it into their faces with the force of a slap.

  He hovered, clearing the floor by several feet. His furious gaze passed over them with a blistering sweep. “Believe me, God would not be so forgiving. You get to keep your lives.”

  Too furious to trust himself not to act with violence, he flew out the hole in the window, shooting high into the sky. The city dwindled in the distance, but he kept going, breaking past layers of soiled air until he was flying a few kilometers under the ionosphere.

  There was almost no air here, not enough for a human to survive on, but Ash felt cleaner here than any space down below.

  If only he could keep flying straight up to Heaven. But the gates were not only barred, they couldn’t even be seen. If he kept going, the curse would bat him back down to earth like a gnat. He knew that because he’d tried before.

  It had been right after he’d abandoned the child in the wasteland. Broken and defeated, he’d tried to go home, only to be hurled down into the desert a second time.

  Things are different now. The tree was proof. Kara was proof. He needed to continue his investigation in the wasteland and to talk to her about what he’d found.

  Now was not the time to lose faith. His sentence on earth could be over soon.

  It wasn’t the pep talk to end all pep talks, but it calmed Ash enough to accept he had to return…in a minute.

  An hour later, a resigned Ash folded his wings, allowing himself to drop down far enough to see the tops of Bastille’s highest buildings. A few strokes later and he was over Belleville. The crowd surrounding his apartment building came into view.

  I should have expected this. The council wouldn’t let power slip from their greasy fingers without a fight. They must have run home to their districts, stoking the fires of discontent with stories of his wrath.

  Below him, the rabble had spotted his wings. Fingers pointed. The crowd of almost four hundred rumbled and roared, giving voice to their discontent.

  That this many people were so easily manipulated into open defiance against him stung his pride. He had to remind himself he had other things to worry about.

  Think of the tree. His ill-disciplined mind threw up an image of Kara instead.

  He landed on the high ledge of his balcony three stories above them. Ash spread his wings before jumping down, landing on the steps of his building with a thump.

  “I know why you are here. I disbanded the council for their failure to protect you. You should be thanking me, not laying siege to my home like whining children.”

  A few people in the crowd quailed appropriately, but the mob had been waiting long enough to feel its power. It snarled and rumbled in response. “The council are our people! They protect us,” someone yelled.

  Ash snapped his wings. “No, I protect you. They’ve been in power too long, and have grown corrupt. It’s time for a change.”

  That was met with silence until a woman found her voice.

  “The council is our people, our leaders,” she called out. “Who will represent us now? Who will speak for us?”

  What nonsensical trash was this? “I am your leader. I speak for you.”

  “No, you speak to us. It’s not the same. My counselor said he had nothing to do with the prison! Mazarin hasn’t failed me.”

  Of course, she didn’t believe that. Mazarin’s people were the most brainwashed. He could steal food from their very children’s mouths, and they would thank him for it.

  “Then why is he so fat while you are so thin?”

  There was another silence.

  “If the council had been doing th
eir job, I wouldn’t be seeing so many gaunt faces here today. Now, tell me,” he snapped. “Who delivered you from Amducious’ grasp? Was it Mazarin? Or was it me?”

  His hot glare passed over their faces when they didn’t answer. “Who helped you rebuild your city and plant your crops?” He lifted his arms. “What hands rebuild your fallen buildings—mine or Mazarin’s?”

  “But the curse hasn’t ended!” a man wailed. “And you keep leaving the city instead of waiting here for it strike again. What will happen when the next Firehorse rises and you’re not here? We can’t deal with it on our own—you declared it a capital crime to kill a cursed person!”

  “I am never so far I can’t return to deal with one,” Ash pointed out. “And know that each of my absences will be brief but necessary—my goal is to end the curse once and for all. Murdering its victims won’t do it, and neither will killing or imprisoning their innocent relatives.”

  “But they aren’t innocent!”

  “Their sins condemn us all,” another cried out. “It’s in their blood. We have to lock them up so we can watch them for signs of the curse.”

  A rock flew up from the left, moving with enough speed and force to kill a human. Ash reached out, snatching the offending stone in a blink. Closing his fist over it, he crushed it, the fragments falling and rolling down the steps.

  Reaching deep into his soul, he spoke as one of the Host, using the angelic resonance at full force—a first in his long years on earth.

  “Now hear this! I am the warden of Bastille,” he shouted, making the ground tremble under their feet.

  All around him, men and woman clapped their hands over their ears, but he showed no mercy. He needed every man, woman, and child in Bastille to hear his decree.

  “I am your leader. I hold your lives in trust in the name of God himself. And when I say the Firehorse must be left for me to deal with, you will obey. Their friends and relatives are equally off limits. Now go home!”

  Screaming in terror, blood running from their ears, the crowd surrounding his building splintered as the people ran away.