The Secret

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Grimold’s sons are dying,” Jaron said, ignoring Volund’s question. “You are going to lose.”

  Volund laughed. “Svarog’s men have not even arrived to join the fun! This battle is not over.”

  “No,” Jaron said with a slow smile. “Svarog’s children have not arrived. How curious.”

  Volund’s smile fell, then he sneered again, rushing Jaron in a rage.

  Jaron accepted the slashing blow to his arm, reveling in the pain as he felt his right hand turn to dust under the guardian’s blade.

  “What do you see now, you fool?” Volund shouted. “What vision did our Master send you? Did you see this, Jaron? Did you see your brother take you apart, piece by piece?”

  He felt. For the first time in his millennia of existence, Jaron reveled in anguish. He fell to his knees laughing and shouting. Volund cocked his head, no doubt wondering where the solemn advisor of heaven had gone.

  But Jaron saw.

  He had seen the truth in his daughter’s eyes, and it had made him yearn. Made him want.

  Made him rage.

  He had planned for decades, only to have his own machinations turned upside down by something as simple—as profound—as love.

  Do not fear the darkness—his Creator had whispered to him once—for it is only a shadow of the sun.

  Then Jaron, son of heaven, raised his eyes as his Master showed him the blade that would bring him home.

  He jumped to his feet and ran at Volund, grinning when the guardian’s sword pierced his belly. He wrapped his good arm around Volund’s waist and jumped from the top of the Opera house, leaping into the storm as icy rain began to fall on empty streets.

  “AVA, come back inside.”

  “I can’t.” She could hear them, curling on the ground in utter pain. She could hear their screams.

  And she loved it.

  Ba dahaa.

  She felt their suffering in her bones, but she would not relent. Ava fed the black void and felt her power grow. The hollow Malachi had drawn from was full, not with his own bright magic, but the black power that grew and flourished in her.

  “Ava, come back.”

  “No.”

  She felt the glass cutting into her stomach, felt the sharp, icy rain at her back, and the tearing pain in her abdomen and legs.

  Ava didn’t care.

  Ba dahaa.

  Zi yada.

  She could taste it. The sweet satisfaction of her enemies’ cries. They screamed, their voices echoing down the city streets as the Irin cut them back.

  “Ava!” Leo pulled her into the building and she spun, tearing at his face with clawed hands.

  “Let me go!”

  “They’re winning!” He pointed to the streets below where Irin scribes and even a few singers had flooded the plaza, overwhelming the Grigori forces, many of whom were in retreat. “They’re beating them back. You have to stop.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You must!”

  “No!”

  “You are hurting Kyra,” he shouted. “You have to stop.”

  She turned to the corner where the kareshta lay, no longer frozen but curled in agonized silence, her body twitching in the wake of Ava’s magic.

  Ava took a deep breath and pulled her power in. “No.”

  Leo knelt next to her. “I don’t know what happened. But every time you hit one of the Grigori outside, she feels it.”

  “She can’t filter them out,” Ava said. “She’s not strong enough yet. Hold her, Leo.”

  “I need to protect you too!”

  “I’ve got it!” She glanced out the window. “And I think they have it too. Something is happening to the Grigori.”

  BARAK and Grimold wrestled, and the ground shook below them. Iron tracks buckled and popped, tossing railcars into the air as the sky let loose the hail that had gathered in the clouds. A great rumbling shook the earth as the train cars cracked together, drawn to Grimold’s elemental power.

  Barak felt his sons fighting around him, and for the first time in millennium he felt… pride. His child had resisted his draw. Once Barak was gone, they would be strong. Safe. They would not bring shame to his line. He wanted to pretend it did not matter, but he was a creature of brutal honesty, if nothing else.

  He cared.

  Grimold had no such pride. He drew his children to his side, throwing them at Barak like so much fodder. The guardian’s sword sprayed dust as it slew them.

  “Stop, Grimold. You kill them for nothing.”

  “I will kill you,” the angel screamed. “Traitor!”

  Barak stood, sword pulsing in the darkness. “That is the point.”

  Grimold stopped, his eyes narrowed.

  Barak saw the twin railings coming from either side. His eyes met Kostas’s for a second before his son ran toward his sire.

  “Father!”

  “I knew you would kill me,” Barak said.

  Grimold smiled.

  So did Barak. “I always planned to take you with me.”

  Laughing, Grimold pulled the iron railings into his hands, the metal phosphorescent with angelic power. He brought them together, tearing Barak’s head from his shoulders, and as he did, he looked down to see the guardian’s sword sunk deep and glowing in the center of his chest.

  He lifted his head to scream, but Grimold’s voice was drowned by thunder as the two angels were sucked into the clouds.

  JARON’S breath stopped for a moment.

  Barak was gone.

  He landed on the green dome of Peterskirche, but he knew it wasn’t high enough, and he was growing weaker.

  Volund struggled, trying to get away, but Jaron’s grip was like iron. He had no will to fight back, so he trapped his brother to his chest and ignored the spreading burn of the sword in his gut as Volund twisted and laughed.

  He closed his eyes and, with the last of his strength, imagined the blade of heaven below him.

  Father, let me fall.

  AVA raised her eyes when the thunder crashed. She saw the shadows of giants rolling in the clouds.

  MALACHI looked up as lightning struck the spire.

  “Impossible,” Rhys whispered at his side.

  JARON opened his eyes to the heavens and laughed as the stars danced over Volund’s back. He felt his body falling and wondered what the humans below thought of his true form.

  “No!” Volund screamed, though his blade bound them together. “NO!”

  “The angel came upon them,” Jaron whispered as the ground rushed up, “and they were sore afraid.”

  Then his back arched and he clutched Volund closer as the consecrated spire of the Stephansdom split them both in two.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  FIFTEEN HUNDRED KILOMETERS AWAY, she screamed, beating her fists against the painted walls until her hands were bloody and broken. The humans rushed in to contain her, but she kept screaming. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped.

  The woman known as Ava Rezai fell unconscious to the floor.

  Vasu stared at her from the corner of the room as the humans raced in and tried to revive her.

  Then he looked at Azril, standing by his side.

  “She will live?”

  Death nodded slowly and returned to Vienna.

  AVA saw the shadows, then lightning touched the top of the spire, illuminating it for a fraction of a second before the vision was gone.

  No thunder rolled through the air.

  No rain fell.

  She knew Jaron was dead.

  Everything was quiet. The biting sleet that had fallen on the street below had stilled, and the air was almost balmy. Bodies, fallen bloody to the cobblestones, began to dissolve. Dust rose, so thick it resembled a golden fog rising from the street.

  No bells rang. No birds flew.

  Ava looked down to see Death walking among them. He stood over her mate and her heart stopped. Then Death looked up and met her eyes.

  Not for many years, daughter.

>   Azril knelt and lifted an Irina from the ground, holding her up to heaven as her body dissolved and rose.

  Another scribe. And another.

  He ignored the bodies of the Grigori, except for the children. Gentle hands lifted them to the heavens, and their shadows passed by her as they rose.

  So many.

  Then the bodies were gone, and Death was too.

  QUIET groans and sobbing rose from the street below as humans began to reappear in the plaza, walking as if nothing had happened. They ducked into brightly lit restaurants and bars, laughing with friends as street musicians played night music in the square.

  Ava watched in a panic as dozens of scribes and singers scattered, whispering spells and touching talesm to hide themselves and the wounded from human eyes. The few Grigori who had survived scurried into the shadows, melting into alleys and side streets. Children woke and looked around in confusion, some of them dragged off by their brethren, others scattering to the streets to fend for themselves.

  The dust of the dead still wafted on the breeze as the clouds cleared; stars shone in a pitch-black sky.

  And the humans saw nothing.

  “Ava, away from the window,” Leo said.

  “They don’t see,” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes from the busy, unthinking populace below.

  “They never see,” Kyra murmured, rubbing her temples. “My father is dead.”

  Leo looked at Ava. “Jaron?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t know how she knew, but it was there. An inexplicable lightness in her mind. A weight off her shoulders. “Volund too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Ava looked at the street below. Scribes and singers had fallen in battle. Children of the Fallen were slain before her eyes. But the rain washed the blood away, and the bodies had dissolved into dust.

  Within moments, the battle was a memory. Her own mate had disappeared.

  “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” she said. “I just want to go home.”

  She knew he was alive. The threads of magic connecting them had not broken. All Ava felt was an unspeakable sorrow deep in her chest.

  “He’s not answering messages.” Leo was texting madly on his cell phone. “Damien and Rhys are going to the Library to check on the council. They think Sari is with Malachi, but they lost them after the battle. I’m trying to find out what happened to your brother, Kyra.”

  “Text Sirius,” Kyra murmured in a daze. “Kostas is horrible about keeping his phone on. Just horrible.”

  Ava turned and leaned against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the ground.

  “I don’t hear any humans outside.”

  “This is an office building,” Leo said, still texting. “It’s nighttime, Ava.”

  Oh, of course it was. The moon was already in the sky, peeking through the clouds that had cleared away. Ava realized that none of the lights were on in the room. When they had entered, it had been daylight. How long had the battle raged? She couldn’t grasp it. Hours? It hadn’t seemed like hours.

  Leo let out a relieved breath. “The council is safe.”

  Ava didn’t care about the council anymore.

  “Sari called Damien. She’s taking Malachi back to their house, then home.”

  “Okay.” She got to her feet and started to move the furniture from in front of the door.

  “Ava,” Leo said. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “There may still be Grigori—”

  “Then I’m taking my broom handle”—she picked up the stick that was lying on the ground—“and I’m going home, Leo.”

  She could feel it building. Ava didn’t want to break down in front of Kyra or Leo. She wanted solitude and Malachi.

  “Okay, okay.” Leo jumped to his feet. He started to help her clear the door. “Let’s get you home.”

  WHEN they reached the flat in Judenplatz, Malachi was waiting on the steps of their building with hollow eyes and a black cat sitting near his feet. Rhys stood over him, haggard but wearing a smile.

  “Go,” Leo said. “I’ll get Kyra back to Damien and Sari’s.”

  Ava looked at Kyra, who nodded swiftly.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me when you get back so I know everyone’s safe.”

  Ava walked over and Rhys gave her a quick hug.

  “All right?” he asked quietly.

  “I will be.”

  “I’ll leave him to you.” He bent down. “He was protecting the Irina. And… the children. You know—”

  “I know.”

  Her mate hadn’t only killed soldiers.

  Then Rhys, Leo, and Kyra ambled into the night and Ava held out her hand.

  Malachi took it but didn’t stand. He didn’t look at her or embrace her.

  “Go away, Vasu,” Ava said.

  So ungrateful.

  The cat sauntered off, then turned.

  They’re dead, you know. You’re safe now. Jaron made sure of it.

  “Really?”

  Truly.

  “Thanks. I guess… thank you.”

  You’re welcome. I’d forgotten how entertaining humans can be. I’ll see you again, Ava.

  She said nothing more to Vasu. Ava pulled Malachi to his feet and led him up to their apartment. When they got inside, she removed his clothes. He was wearing jeans; someone had thrown a jacket over him and pushed boots on his feet. The shirt under it was stained with blood.

  Ava tore it off, searching for wounds.

  “Not my blood,” he said quietly. “It’s not my blood.”

  She broke.

  Pressing her face into his chest, she sobbed. Great, wracking, painful cries of relief and agony over the lives lost. For what she had done. For what he had been forced to do. He put tentative hands on her shoulders, but he did not embrace her.

  “Ava.” His voice sounded more fragile than she’d ever heard before. “I need to get clean.”

  She led him to the bathroom and stripped the clothes off them both. She would throw them away in the morning. Maybe she would burn them. Ava stood with Malachi under blistering hot water until it ran cold. She washed his hair for him and cleaned the dust from every inch of his skin. Then she led him to bed and crawled under the covers.

  Neither one of them slept, but they held each other until dawn. And when the night had passed and Rhys had called to check on them both, Ava returned to him. Sometime after she heard the humans rouse in the streets below, she slept.

  “I’M sorry,” he whispered, clutching her in the forest as night birds sang overhead. “I’m sorry.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her neck as she held him.

  The forest was darker than it had ever been, though the oppressive fog around them had lifted. No moon shone in the sky above. The earth they rested on was bleak and cold.

  “It’s so dark,” he said, his powerful body curled into her, shivering. “Why is it so dark?”

  “It won’t always be dark,” she told him, running her fingers through his hair and down his neck, feeling the strength of him more powerfully for the way he bared himself to her. “I promise. The moon will come out again.”

  He said nothing, but allowed her to hold him.

  “It’s okay,” she said, over and over again. “It will be okay.”

  She held him in the night, comforting him when she felt his shoulders shaking.

  “You found me once,” she said. “Do you remember? I was broken. You picked me up and you carried me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told me you would never leave me again.”

  “I’m tired, reshon.”

  “Rest then. I’ll hold you.”

  He relaxed into her arms.

  “Remember,” she whispered, “it’s only when the night is darkest that you can see the light of the stars.”

  He stretched her out and there was a soft blan
ket beneath them. The forest became a refuge, and she saw some of the sorrow leave his eyes.

  “Sing to me,” he asked her.

  So she did.

  VII.

  “THERE YOU ARE.”

  Svarog turned when he heard Vasu’s voice. The house in Wieden was empty. Had been empty for years, though Vasu had heard that the angel had kept a home and a mistress in the city at one time. He’d enjoyed tweaking the noses of the Irin Council—even if the council hadn’t known it—only a few blocks from the famous Naschmarkt of Vienna.

  Vasu wore his most comfortable human guise, a lean form native to the Indian subcontinent he called home. He was ready, so ready, to return to the warm climes of his home in Chittorgarh. He was ready to come out of hiding.

  “And there you are, old friend,” Svarog said. He’d taken on the appearance of an urban gentleman. His suit cut was immaculate. But then, Svarog had always liked his luxuries. “I knew rumors of your death must be exaggerated.”

  “Aren’t they always?”

  “It appears so. Both you and Barak were a surprise.” His voice dropped when they spoke of the fallen archangel. “Jaron kept his allies close.”

  Vasu smiled. “Volund could have learned a lesson from him.”

  “Volund,” Svarog growled, “was too proud to learn from anyone.”

  Vasu leaned against the banister in the spacious entryway. “And where are your children, my friend? I did not see Svarog’s sons in the midst of battle.”

  The angel turned. “Where were Volund’s?”

  “Dead in Oslo.”

  Svarog raised a steel-grey eyebrow. “Exactly.”

  Vasu was delighted by the angel’s trickery. Svarog wasn’t an archangel. Like Vasu, he’d been quite young when he fell. And unlike many of his brethren, he still enjoyed the pleasures of human women. His progeny were widespread among Central and Eastern Europe.

  “You double-crossed him. I’m delighted.”

  “I knew Jaron would kill Volund,” Svarog said, looking out the window. “I never doubted that. And when he did, I was not going to lie among his sacrifices. My sons herded Barak’s heretic children here. Then they returned to their homes. I would not waste my men for Volund’s mad quest.”