“What does that have to do with anything?” Shen sputtered.
“It has to do with everything,” the angel sighed. “And I’m not talking about the apocalypse of the world—I mean your own personal apocalypse.”
Shen narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and said, “Oh. Okay,” before pivoting and walking away.
Lucan grabbed his arm and yanked him back to the wooden door before he could get away. The angel raised his hand and banged on the door three times, paused, and repeated his actions. “The word comes from the Greek, apokalypsis, meaning something that is uncovered, a revelation,” Lucan explained as they waited. “Revelation simply means to reveal. You wanted so much to be these creatures of knowledge and were granted that ability, but you’ve been running from the truth ever since.”
Shen rolled his eyes. “Save your misanthropic speeches for someone who gives a shit.”
Lucan chuckled darkly. “I never said anything about hating. And trust me—the more humans know, the better.”
The door groaned open and a man appeared on the other side dressed in heavy layers of linen. A large automatic rifle was slung across his back, and Shen instinctively reached for his own weapon. Lucan deftly placed his hand on Shen’s arm, a silent ‘no’ shining in his eyes. Without turning away from Shen, Lucan faintly whispered, “Arcessere.” The guard glanced from Lucan to Shen the same way Sur had. It wasn’t a look of familiarity or a look of fear. It was a look of absolute distrust.
Still, the man stepped to the side and let them enter, swinging the rifle around so he could wrap finger around the trigger. Shen pulled a face, slightly sardonic. “Nice hustle, guy. Keep up the good work.” The guard gripped the rifle tighter and Shen’s grin faltered. “Are you all this paranoid or is this a special brand of crazy you’ve concocted for me?”
Shen stutter-stepped when he felt a hard hand on his shoulder, pushing him. “If he kills you, I won’t blame him,” Lucan said as they passed the guard.
“Well, a few days ago, I had a hole in my right shoulder. I’ve been a bit more adventurous since then.”
They made their way down a long, dark hallway until they came to an arched doorway and turned a corner. The foyer beyond that was drenched in warmth, with earth tones and richly colored, flowing fabric hanging from the ceiling, a deep contrast to the harsh white lights in the store. It opened to a long, narrow hall lined with alabaster columns and illuminated display cases on wooden stands. African and Hindi art covered each of the walls. There was one piece that Shen recognized, only because he’d been forced to listen to Jin’s random history lessons on African art. The Cross of Emperor Tewodros of Ethiopia. He wondered, faintly, what it was doing in a secret room in the back of a store hundreds of miles away from the tomb in which it was supposed to be stored. His surprise waned when he remembered that he was in the company of a sociopath who probably had no problem looting a sacred relic from someone's grave.
Lucan continued deeper down the hall, passing the columns with remote interest. He paused at the bottom of a flight of marble steps. Kissing the ground was a sheer red curtain that hung from the ceiling, faintly obscuring whatever was behind it.
“Pythia Del,” Lucan said as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You’re late,” called out an accented feminine voice from behind the curtain.
He scoffed. “You can’t be late if there was never a time given.”
“Ridiculous. If I say you are late, then you are late, Lucan,” she countered patiently.
Lucan cleared his throat but made no attempt to argue with her. Instead, he took a seat on one of the massive, oversized pillows on the floor. “Is everyone else here?”
Pythia Del hummed in response. “They all arrived a few hours ago. I am hoping that this news is good, better than good, for you to call us together on a whim like this. We don’t have the luxury of disappearing as you see fit to do.”
Before Lucan answered her, he turned toward Shen and pointed toward a seat.
Shen rolled his eyes. “I’m doing this because…?” he asked stubbornly as he leaned against a column. The commands were wearing him thin and he didn’t move.
“Because I’d hate to force you. Things go so much smoother when people just do as they are told,” Lucan said tightly.
“Sur told me you brought someone,” Pythia Del purred from behind the curtain. “Who is our guest of honor?
Lucan paused for a moment before he spoke. “Shen Park.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
There was a stretch of silence in the room. “Shen.” It was said with a hint of incredulous curiosity.
A petite brown hand snaked from behind the curtain to pull a cord that swept the fabric up to reveal a heavily gilded, jeweled throne. Pythia Del looked around the same age as Shen, swimming somewhere in her early thirties. She had deep-brown skin, long, black hair, dark eyes, and was dressed in shades and fabrics similar to those of the guard at the door. A large hemp scarf hung around her neck, and her brown cargo pants were stuffed into a pair of worn brown leather boots. “He actually survived this time?”
Lucan scoffed. “Not without help. A lot of help.”
“If he’s alive, so is she.” Pythia Del stood. “So did you call this meeting to highlight your failures or to boast?” Lucan glared, prompting her to laughter. She gracefully swaggered down the steps, her long ponytail swaying. Pythia Del eyed Shen with a hint of approval as she weaved through the pillows toward him. “The prodigious Shen, actually alive. Fascinating.”
“Yeah, alive. Real fascinating.” Shen muttered.
She sauntered around him as if she contemplated devouring him, her fingers trailing over his shoulders and across his arms as she assessed him. “You’re cuter than I was expecting. Younger, but definitely handsome,” she said.
“I try…” Shen’s forehead puckered as she invaded his personal space with her fragrance. He felt the same sort of authority seeping from Pythia Del’s pores he got from Lucan, but with her it was more refined, softer, easier to digest. She took her invasion a step further by slipping her hand into his and pulling him deeper into the room.
“Relax. You act as if I’m going to bite you. I’m a snake charmer, Shen, not a snake. See, no fangs. Come, I have things to show you.”
He followed wordlessly as she walked him to a pillow and gestured that he should sit. He preferred her methods of charming, as she put it, a shade more than Lucan’s. He could also tell she was far sneakier as she plopped down beside him.
Lucan pushed a large book in front of him and Shen didn’t ask where he got it from. The leather cover was worn and the spine was fraying. On the cover, under a layer of dusty fingerprints, was a word that he didn’t recognize.
“Page four hundred,” commanded Lucan.
Shen sighed loudly as he tugged the heavy cover over and flipped through a handful of thin, fragile pages. He squinted. The entire book was written in a completely foreign language.
“Read,” Lucan pressed.
Shen’s lip hitched. “Why do you think I can read this?”
“Read, Shen. Clear your mind and read.” Lucan’s tone didn’t book much room for argument. Pythia Del continued to watch him with stark interest.
Shen looked at the pages again. It was a collection of bold strokes and sharp symbols that he’d never seen before in his life. He sighed and pushed the book away. “I can’t.”
Pythia Del laughed from beside Shen. “No, really. Why do you think he will be able to read that? You honestly think he’s going to because you want him to? You can barely read that.”
“He’s not even trying—”
Pythia Del cut him off. “Stop being a risible ass. It takes years of training to connect, and you know that. Plus, I have a far better method, and you know it.”
Shen jumped when Pythia Del climbed into his lap with feline ease. He tried to back away as her large doe eyes bore into his, but she slipped one arm under his and around his back, stopping his escape.
She threaded her other hand through his hair with the familiar ease of a lover. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, “it’s less frightening that way.”
“What are you doing?” he asked, wary.
Pythia Del smiled. “Even if I explained it, love, you wouldn’t understand.” As fast as a cobra’s strike, Pythia Del clenched a handful of his hair and smashed her lips against his.
At first, he was excited—this hot woman was in his lap, kissing him, and he could feel every line of her body as she pressed up against him. He could even ignore the pain in his scalp, because screw it; it kind of turned him on.
Charlie.
He began to pull back but the hand in his hair tightened. Her tongue snaked into his mouth, and…something made him stop resisting. Without even realizing it, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. Pythia Del smiled against his lips. Without warning, a sharp pain raced up the side of his jaw and under his eyes, and a blast of tight pressure exploded across his forehead. He screwed his eyes shut as a bright light blinded him.
Then it was quiet.
“Open your eyes.”
Shen did as he was told. The throne room was gone.
Now they stood in front of an imposing manor. It was enormous, with lofty towers, multiple chimneys, and large oak doors. A lush, rolling lawn stretched across the front of the house, all the way to the wall surrounding the property. Behind the mansion, the top of a gazebo peeked over the hedges of a dense maze, and swaying willow trees filled the rest of what Shen could see.
The world blurred and pulled him in, flashing them inside the house and up a set of long winding stairs to dump him into a parlor. The world sharpened again. An assembly dressed in black and gold was gathered, some standing, but most sitting around a heavy oak table. Everyone looked important—sharp suits and sharper, serious demeanors—but the anger and uneasiness etched on their faces gave the room a frigid and brittle air.
Shen cleared his throat and waited for someone to acknowledge his sudden appearance. He tried again, louder. Nothing. Pythia Del’s hand snuck up his side and squeezed him playfully.
“Where are we?” Shen asked her.
“Has Lucan told you about the Mutare?”
Shen nodded.
“This house is Au Courant, the home of The Above.”
“The Above what?”
“That’s it. Just, The Above. The location is more important than names. We are in a place called Caeli. It’s a…realm, between the plane you live on and The Glory Beyond—what you would call Heaven. It allows angels, under the command of The Above, to perform certain tasks while they are in it.” Pythia Del’s eyes softened as they glanced over the room. Shen nodded again before he inhaled deeply and blew it out slowly. He opened his mouth to ask a question but Pythia Del cut him off with another playful squeeze.
She looked forward as she spoke. “I often find the best answers come from listening.”
“I understand how you feel, Shemhazi. Azeal is of my blood, too. You are not alone in your despair. But this is a command from The Above, and their command comes from The Glory Beyond. You have no power to overturn it. I have no power to…none of us do. No matter how much I wish it was different. She can’t be saved.”
A man with dark umber skin and a pinched mouth glared hotly at the scroll clutched in his hands with anger-darkened eyes. His glare burned even hotter as he looked across the table to the man who had spoken.
Pythia Del leaned close to Shen’s ear. “The angry-looking one with the ruddy hair is Shemhazi. Currently he is the leader of The Fallen, a council that governs Fallen Angels and Mutare,” she explained, pointing to the man clutching the scroll. “The one with the bad news is Shamsiel, another member of The Fallen, and Shemhazi’s brother. They are both Root Watchers—full angels. Unlike Lucan or me, they have no human blood in them.”
Shen pulled a face. “We can make them stronger…faster.”
Pythia Del grinned.
Shemhazi was shaking. “I’ve done everything in my power to be of good service to this council. I have served it for centuries—eons. Even as we were cast out as enemies, marked as traitors to The Glory Beyond, we still came together to fight for the greater good. That was our sacrifice, our atonement, in order to make the world safe—the world that we loved enough to give up everything for. And as much as I understand each and every command I am given, I can’t…I can’t go to my son and tell him that Cairenn can’t be saved. Our right as Watchers, Mutare, and Nephilim is this one joy and—”
“There will be others. Ones that can comfort him over the loss of one human woman,” said a woman as she massaged her temples. She was slightly fairer than the rest, with freckles across her nose and streaks of brassy blond in her black mane.
Shemhazi’s palms slammed against the table as he stood, his glare hot on her from across the table. “She is his wife, Penume!”
Pythia Del nudged Shen again. “Penume,” she said, pointing to the woman, “is one of the Dialects. She taught human children their languages, and she believes strongly in the order of things. Sacrifice. Obedience. Or so she says.”
“I’m not saying that she isn’t important to Azeal,” Penume offered in an effort to placate her angry leader, “but she is also important to the whole realm. She was never supposed to live! She was—”
“But she has lived, she is alive, and now we are punishing her for our mistake? Do we not have more compassion than that?”
“This isn’t about compassion. This is about order!” Penume fumed.
“Shemhazi,” Shamsiel said, sounding determined. “This is not the first sacrifice that we as Fallen have had to make. When you, when I, when Penume and Baraquiel, when Azeal took that vow, he knew the risks.”
Pythia Del pulled at the hem of Shen’s shirt. “We can stay, but it doesn’t get any prettier than this. All bureaucratic anarchy. Let’s go visit Azeal for a moment.” They turned toward the doors, but Shen stopped to look back.
“So, are they going to kill the wife? Cairenn.”
“No, not kill her, they would never. But there will be no effort to save her.” Pythia Del pushed open a set of towering, stained-glass French doors that led to an empty hallway. She looked around as if she were trying to remember something, taking one slow, decisive step and then another. She came to another door, nodding in recognition and pushing it open. It led to another hallway that matched the one they just left.
“Cairenn was a merchant’s wife, truly a very unremarkable woman. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, she wasn’t uncommonly smart or intelligent, and she was sickly most of her life. The one thing that Azeal discovered about her, however, was her compassion. She was a very sweet, loving, and humble woman. She reminded him of his mother, Ayesha. His father, Shemhazi, adored his wife, and Azeal wanted to find the same love.”
They turned a corner past a nook and came across another set of open doors. Just past them was an expansive, wood-paneled dojo. She stared at it for a moment before she continued walking.
“Azeal first met Cairenn on the cliffs near the harbor where her husband worked. The man stumbled, and he fell to his death. His wife found him, broken on the rocks below. Her sobs were so horrible that Azeal couldn’t help but follow the sound. She’d climbed the cliff and was prepared to follow her husband when Azeal stopped her from jumping. I could tell you a long drawn-out story about healing and finding love in comfort, but just know they came to care for each other deeply. “
They walked through one door, then another, and then another. Shen leaned toward the idea that they were walking in circles.
“There are certain ‘perks’ for a human mated with an angel, depending on how strong the human vessel is. Their natural lifespan extends to match their mate’s, and over time it is possible for them to receive their mate’s lineal gift. Cairenn, ironically, received Ayesha’s gift of healing.
“She was very good at it, and was nearly a deity in her village. The tragedy in this tale is that she was never abl
e to heal herself from the sickness she’d lived with all her life. Now, after almost two hundred years as Azeal’s mate, she’d grown deathly ill. In his grief, Azeal broke a number of protocols by asking The Fallen to appeal to The Above to save her. What was hidden from him was this—Cairenn should have died on the cliffs. And she would have, save for Azeal’s interference.
“Shouldn’t he have known that? Isn’t that you guys’ job?”
“Every decision made in Caeli stems from the Tambour’s reading. Delegation is necessary to make this world work, and the job of watching our strings of purpose falls to them. They interpret, and Mutare act. Tambour maidens aren’t infallible, however. The ripples of Azeal’s interference weren’t felt until years and years later, and Cairenn’s sickness acted as a failsafe. Cairenn was meant to die, and she would.”
“That’s messed up.”
Pythia glanced at him with an upturned brow.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Shen said. “People are innocent or they are guilty. There is a difference. Cairenn is innocent. Jin was not.”
“Whatever you say, love.”
Pythia Del led him back down the long flight of stairs and out into a courtyard. They walked across the pebbled clearing and onto a long dirt path that stretched far into the distance. They walked, mostly in silence, until they approached a wide expanse of flat land leading to a series of rolling hills. At the foot of the hills were hundreds of men and women wearing boiled-leather armor and woolen pants, wielding practice swords, knives, and maces.
“Azeal once commanded the Army of the Fallen. They are implemented in larger missions and battles, for Humans and Angels alike. These,” she swept her hand over the lines of soldiers, “are his finest warriors. They are very loyal…to a fault.”
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