All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel) (42 page)

“
Okay,”
Sister Mary-Therese said. “Okay.”

Poe hadn’t
known these women in her life, had only been in Sister
Mary-Therese’s presence once before the priest ended her life
by the pond. Despite not knowing them, she felt now as she did when
she was here before: they were women of great power, women to be
respected and loved. She felt she’d have been friends with
them, given the chance.

Too bad her job was
to take one of them to Hell.

Poe cowered against
the wall. Living through the man on the railroad tracks again was
bad, but this was worse. It wasn’t Aleysa’s fault she
found herself in this position. Without intervention, Poe assumed
she’d have remained Sister Agnes for the rest of her days,
serving God until she lay on her death bed in old age.

Poe shook her head
sadly—here Aleysa lay on her death bed, so much potential
wasted by an angel’s lust.

“
Push,”
Sister Mary-Therese said.

“
She
will come with me.”

The deep, melodic
peal of words floated out of empty air, but neither of the women
noticed. Poe scanned the room and saw the two figures in the
opposite corner nearest the bed, their shadowy silhouettes outlined
against the white wall. She’d felt their presence the first
time she was here, but hadn’t seen them.

Why can I see
them now?

Strange things come
to pass in Hell.

Sister Agnes let
out a grunt worthy of a power-lifter surpassing his personal best.

“
That’s
it, that’s it. Keep pushing.”

Sister Mary-Therese
reached over her friend’s knees and wiped the sweat off her
forehead. The nun seemed understandably uncomfortable with her role
as obstetrician. Poe imagined the convent teaching mentioned
precious little about assisting a fellow nun giving birth. Spiritual
birth, emotional birth, perhaps, but not the having a baby kind of
birth.

The thought sounded
so much like one of Icarus’, it bubbled a nervous titter over
Poe’s lips. She clamped her hand over her mouth. The two women
on the bed didn’t notice, but the archangels—their
figures filling in with shape and features and color—paused in
their dispute and glanced in her direction.

She froze.

†‡†

My mother grunted
and my gut twinged. Moments before, I’d mentally accused her
of betraying me and now I was watching her make the ultimate
sacrifice for me. She gave up everything. It would have been so much
easier to don a disguise and find a back-alley abortion clinic than
to be a nun carrying a baby to term. How different her life would
have been.

She gave it all
up for me. And what have I done to thank her?

The anger and
confusion that drove me into the tunnel faded, replaced by the urge
to rush to her side and comfort her. I tried, but my feet wouldn’t
move.

“
That’s
it, that’s it. Keep pushing.”

I heard the giggle
right after Sister Mary-Therese wiped the sweat from my mother’s
face. It was so small and quiet, I wasn’t completely sure I’d
heard it. Neither of the women made the noise—my mother too
involved in giving birth to laugh and Sister Mary-Therese too
considerate a woman to giggle under these circumstances.

There was someone
else in the room.

It didn’t
surprise me, I’d seen this before and there had been a Carrion
and a couple of bickering archangels in attendance at the momentous
occasion of my birth.

And my mother’s
death.

I looked around the
room. A vague bank of fog floated in one corner, like the way the
faces of people in a crowd on a newscast are blotted out. I blinked
and it faded, forgotten about when I spied the figure crouched in
the other corner. A figure dressed in black with a cowl pulled over
his head.

The Carrion.

†‡†

Minutes passed, the
baby’s first breath inching closer. Poe’s apprehension
increased with each second closer it grew. She’d attempted to
change the outcome in the shed and couldn’t. She tried to
change what happened to the man on the railroad tracks without
success. Everything pointed to her inability to influence the
outcome to be anything other than what had already happened, but she
was determined to try.

If I don’t
collect the soul, she may live.

The two
archangels—solid now, though still invisible to the
women—moved closer to the bed. They loomed over the nuns,
shoulder to shoulder, like rabid fans attempting to glimpse their
favorite celebrity.

But Azrael would
take her to Hell.

Only a fifty/fifty
chance things would turn out for the better if she didn’t do
something to influence the outcome. If she could. She needed to make
sure Michael ended up with Sister Agnes’ soul or, preferably,
neither of them.

I have to
distract Azrael.

Her feet carried
her forward a step. Sister Agnes grunted, the tail end of it turning
to a half-scream. Sister Mary-Therese’s voice murmured beneath
her friend’s.

“
You
can do it. You can do it. Here it comes. You can do it.”

The startling cry
of a newborn gasping its first breath stopped both of them. Sister
Mary-Therese guided the tiny body free of its mother, gently cradled
it in her arms and did her best to hold the child up for the new
mother to see.

“
Aleysa.
It’s a--”

The
first time this happened—the time it
really
happened—the
newborn so enthralled Poe she hadn’t noticed anything else go
on around her. This time, knowing the outcome and being determined
to change it refocused her attention. She looked over Sister
Mary-Therese’s shoulder when the gush of blood followed the
baby out of Sister Agnes’ womb, soaking the bed in crimson,
and saw the new mother’s face go white.

She saw Michael’s
hand on the woman’s stomach.

“
No.”

She didn’t
mean to say the word aloud. For years, she’d worshipped the
archangel Michael, hung on his words, strove to please the angel
responsible for saving her from the life of a Carrion. To find out
responsibility for the nun’s death rested with him and not
Azrael, as she’d been led to believe...

Both archangels
looked up, unaware until now that she was there. They all stared at
each other for an instant. Poe’s heart thumped on her head.

How can this be?

She shook free of
the shock first and grabbed Sister Agnes by the arm, wrenching her
soul free of the earthly body before either angel claimed her. The
threat of tears choked her throat closed, otherwise she might have
paused to ask Michael why he had done this.

The spirit followed
without protest as Sister Mary-Therese, oblivious to the others in
the room, shouted for help.

She doesn’t
know it’s too late.

The thought was
welcome relief from the aching disappointment filling Poe’s
limbs. If this had been real instead of a Hellish re-enactment, she
might not have made it across the room and out the door. The weight
of knowing, of disappointment, might have dragged her to the floor,
curled her up in a ball, knees hugged to chest. But it wasn’t
real, it happened nearly forty years before. Maybe what she was in
wasn’t reality but Hell manipulating her memory.

With the soul of
the nun trailing behind, Poe reached for the door knob, the hood
falling away from her face. Only then did she see the man standing
to the right of the door.

Only then did she
look into the eyes of Icarus Fell.

†‡†

The first mewling,
high-pitched cry—the first sound I ever made—startled me
and brought prickly flesh to the back of my neck. I reached up and
rubbed the goose bumps as Sister Mary-Therese held the baby-me up
for my mother to see and told her I was a boy. Her words stopped
mid-sentence and I smelled the coppery odor of my mother’s
blood, like when I saw this in Hell before, but this time the
Carrion stood between me and the bed so I didn’t have to see
her bleed to death.

Sister Mary-Therese
screamed for help as the Carrion snatched my mother’s soul and
stumbled away from the bedside. I struggled to move and block the
door, to stop this from happening again, but my legs only moved me
two steps, positioning me beside the doorway.

The Carrion
approached, his black hood hiding his face, my mother in tow. No
choice but to watch. A step away, the Carrion looked up and reached
for the door knob. The hood fell away.

My flesh went
instantly cold.

“
Poe?”

Our eyes met and
hers widened. I opened my mouth to question her, to ask what she was
doing here, what was going on, but breath failed me. Seeing her
taking my mother to Hell took it away.

They brushed past
me, opened the door and went through. I stood in shock for a few
seconds, my eyes looking at but not seeing Sister Mary-Therese as
she held me in her arms, comforting me even as she screamed for
help. The archangels struggled behind her. The noise of the crying
babe, the shouting nun, dragged me from my stupor and I turned to
follow the Carrion. Conflicting emotions hammered my brain—anger
and disappointment at Poe, whom I’d trusted, whom I very
nearly loved, but also excitement. If I was here, if I could affect
the outcome, then I intended to find a way to win my mother back.
This was my chance to make up for all she’d sacrificed so I
could live.

When I spun around,
the rough-hewn wall of a Hell cave stood at my back. I stumbled
forward, disbelieving my eyes, unwilling to give up the opportunity
to make amends, but the rock remained. My fingers brushed the stone,
felt its warmth and solidity, and my stomach slipped.

They’re
gone.

The crying and
shouting had ceased. I looked back to where Sister Mary-Therese had
been holding me in the first moment of my being and found her gone.
No bedroom, no gold shag, no wooden crucifix. Instead, I gazed upon
a roughly square stone room with a pile of hay pushed into the far
corner. A wan light emanating from nowhere and everywhere
illuminated the area; I saw a dark patch of crimson on the ground
near the straw. Part of me wanted to go to it, but I already knew
that the stain was a marker to remind me of and torture me with my
mother’s death.

She was in love
against her will. She didn’t deserve this.

I loped down the
tunnel without knowing where it might lead. Would it take me back to
the ledge I’d left or deep into Hellish catacombs I’d
never find my way out of?

As I left the room
behind, the dim illumination receded along with it. I slowed my
pace, bumped into walls as the corridor twisted and turned leaving
me in a darkness only experienced underground. Claustrophobia
threatened the edge of my consciousness, but the roil of emotions
twisting my guts and rattling my mind wouldn’t let it in.

Azrael, my mother,
Father Dominic, Marty and Todd, Piper and now Poe. Could I trust no
one? Didn’t anyone care?

The thought of Poe
made my teeth clench. For these past months I’d trusted her,
listened to her, only to find her a part of the machinations which
ruined my life, the impetus which started the proverbial ball
rolling. She told me once Michael rescued her from Hell, but she’d
never mentioned being a Carrion.

She didn’t
tell me it was her who took my mother’s soul to Hell.