Archon

Angels were fond of freshness and youth, and though he’d expected a girl, maybe even a woman, this turn of events was undeniably interesting. Here was an opportunity to be relished; a beautiful thing, weak and fragile as glass. The young man was slender, but also tall and well-built, ringlets of brown hair spilling against the base of his strong neck. He’d hesitated, one hand resting on the door handle. Now he leaned forward, scanning the church’s insides, breathing softly.

“Yes?” Israfel peered from behind a column.

The human gasped. His hand slipped, snapping the handle back into place.

It was a typical reaction. Any angel could be beautiful, but Israfel knew he painted a far more imposing picture than most. His figure bordered on ambiguous, his blue eyes were larger than a human’s, ringed with stylized circles of kohl, and the hair that framed them shimmered whiter than the stars. A single word from his lips and the universe stilled to listen. This wasn’t the first time he’d left someone with nothing to say.

“Your name then?” he said more gently.

The human shut the double doors, their handles latching with a
click
.

Slowly, he crept closer, too enthralled not to get a better look. But his journey stopped at a mildew-covered pew, and he steadied himself with a hand on its armrest. “My name is—Brendan,” he whispered. “Brendan Mathers.”

“My name is Israfel.” He glided out into the open, still feigning shyness.

Silence lingered between them, rain pattering against the church’s outer walls, droning steadily as it dampened old buttresses and statues. The building was small compared to others in the city, but sadly abandoned to time and the elements. Holes speckled the lower ceiling, some revealing the towers sparkling against the night sky, others allowing the breeze to bluster raindrops into puddles near Israfel’s feet. Mold splotched the altar, darkened spots of the walls, stained paintings, and obscured once-intricate tapestries.

Brendan, though, was oblivious to it all. “Israfel . . .” he whispered again. “You are aware this part of the Academy is off-limits to civilians and students?”

“You were listening to me sing, weren’t you?”

Brendan swallowed, his voice cracking. “That has nothing to do with the fact that you’re in a restricted area and—”

“We both know I’m not a student.”

Israfel allowed his toes to catch the light, their tiny scales glistening like diamond dust.

Thunder, too faint for human ears, rumbled out in the distance. Another storm was arriving fast, threatening to saturate the church. Israfel made a show of brushing dirt from his feet and stepped gracefully toward the altar at the end of the aisle, its odor of rotten wood stale and thick. A single, long glide would have shortened the journey, but this was hardly the time to reveal his wings. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Brendan. Perhaps we’ll cross paths again sometime in the future.”

Brendan’s footsteps echoed from behind.

Israfel paused, forcing back a smile. “Is there anything else? I am leaving after all.”

“You—” Brendan sounded as if he’d been slapped. “You’re not going to leave by yourself? Are you? Let me escort you home.” He averted his eyes. “You don’t look like someone who’s been in Luz for long—and the city can be dangerous at night.”

“Then you probably won’t be happy to see where I live.” Israfel looked over his shoulder. “In fact, you just might evict me.”

He continued strolling to the right of the altar, toward a doorway with wooden molding warped and blackened by moisture. Brendan moved to follow him, peeking up at the skyline through the nearest hole in the ceiling. The storm’s fringes were rolling inland already, their clouds dyed lethal shades of purple and black. “You never answered my question,” he said, trailing after Israfel again. “Do you even know that you’re on Academy grounds? The barbed-wire fence should have been warning enough.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Israfel ascended the flight of stairs, his airy steps suddenly interrupted by creaks and groans. Darkness surrounded them, and he traced his fingers along the window that paralleled the staircase, allowing its smooth surface to guide him upward. The first hints of the downpour spat against the glass, glazing a view of broken turrets and curled shingles. Brendan slowed as they passed, his voice hushed.

“You live in the rectory?”

The path ended, cut off by a pitted door.

Israfel pushed it open, spilling warm light from his room onto the landing. His chamber was somewhat dull for an angel nest, any hope at elegance destroyed by the cobwebs waving from the ceiling. But what humans lacked in maintenance he’d made up for in thievery. The carvings circling the windows and door frames were the perfect place to hang mirrors, broken or cracked. Musty velvet cushions and small end tables lay scattered throughout the room, mixing with Israfel’s hasty collection of jewels and brushes and musical trinkets. Luckily, the candlelight could only reach so far, hiding some of the garbage.

“Perhaps you should wait out the rain.” Israfel picked up a crystal bottle within reach, unplugging the stopper and savoring the nectar inside.

A drop escaped, trickling down his throat, wetting his collarbone.

“That is,” he said as he licked his bottom lip, “unless you’re going to kick me out of my nest.”

Brendan was staring openly now.

Israfel turned away from him, rearranging another set of decanters on the table. Eventually he settled into the loveseat, offering his crystal bottle, swishing the small portion of nectar sparkling inside. Brendan took the hint and sat next to him, fastidiously plucking at his black coat. Its contours were slim and sharply cut, but the fabric remained buttoned down to his ankles. More sweat beaded his forehead, gathering in a thin line above his collar. The young man ran a shaky hand through his curls, blinking only to find Israfel gazing into his eyes.

“Well,” Israfel said, “go ahead and ask.”

Brendan’s handsome face paled. “Ask you what?”

“All right. I’ll answer.” He placed the bottle in Brendan’s hands. “I’m male. Now why don’t you have a drink? Where I come from, it would be a great honor for you to share my glass.”

The young man took the decanter, examining it with a slight frown. Then he raised the rim to his lips, sipped, and sipped again, unaware that some of the nectar was dribbling down his chin. “You’re a—male,” Brendan said, surfacing for air. “A man . . .” He laughed nervously but choked down his last mouthful and set the bottle on the floor, looking like he’d been wounded somehow.

Israfel bit his lip, trying to contain his amusement.

Rain had matted the fine feathers of his hair, and he gathered them into a short rope near his chest, stroking the strands down to their tips.

Brendan remained silent, staring down into his lap.

Every now and then his glance flicked back to Israfel, taking in his long neck, his tapering fingers.

“So now you must tell me something about yourself.” Israfel shifted closer. “Perhaps you have an interesting family . . .”

“My family.” Brendan’s expression hazed over. He slumped lazily into the couch cushions, shut his eyes to the candlelight and the broken ceiling lamp. Sweat dampened the hair around his ears, shone across his temples. “All I have left is a sister. Angela.”

Lightning flashed outside, brightening the walls of the room to silver, briefly revealing piles of feathers that had drifted near its corners. But Brendan wasn’t paying attention, and the thunder followed soon afterward, slightly drowning out his voice.

“I’m told she’s arriving here soon.”

Brendan sighed, his broad shoulders rising and falling heavily. In one swift movement, he unclasped the hooks holding his collar closed.

“Her and the hundreds of other blood heads that show up every semester.”

“I see.” Israfel clenched his fingers into the couch’s armrest, fighting off a round of painful cramps and a wave of nausea, his newest smile tight and perceptibly forced. Already. He’d timed the last injection to keep him going for hours, but either his ailments were getting worse, or the hours of singing were finally taking their toll. Well, it was obvious now that he didn’t have much longer to wait. According to Brendan, Luz was the right city after all. Perhaps he should take this opportunity and indulge himself for a change.

Human souls were rumored to be quite sweet.

“You said you wanted me to leave this place.” He slid a hand over Brendan’s. “But what do you
really
want, Brendan? Why are you
really
here?”

The young man looked at him, at his fingers, pale. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Yet the thirst was there, gleaming behind his eyes. His lips parted, voiceless.

A second passed where they regarded each other.

“I—” Brendan slid nearer, tentatively touching Israfel’s arm, breathing hard. He was shaking all over; visibly disturbed by the idea of whatever he thought or felt. But then he reached out again, delicately stroking the length of Israfel’s neck, looking like he expected the dream to be over at any second. His fingers were chill and much damper than before. “You’re saying that you would sing it for me—” His voice choked away. “The song I’ve been hearing until now?”

“If you’re willing.”

Brendan went rigid, his eyes wide. “I’m—willing.”

“All right then . . .”

So Israfel began softly, his tone soothing and warm. Such shyness deserved a gentle beginning. But after a short time, Israfel subtly switched to a longer series of verses, his tone pure, yet with each note more powerful than the last. The room throbbed with their closeness, with a new heat. Brendan’s body relaxed, his tension dissipated, and Israfel’s lilting voice reached out for his Beloved and back again, until the universe seemed to gather around them, tight and suffocating. Even with his eyes closed, he saw the stars, the water, the beauty of their dawn. A flashing, living past.

When he opened them again, Brendan was gone.

Or at least his mind had left him, swallowed inside Israfel’s own dreams. As a human, Brendan couldn’t understand an angel’s song, or the significance of the words and images Israfel conjured. But he could feel that significance, and it had drawn him into a fog of illusions. Sights and sounds that would steer his soul until the day he died.

Israfel reached the climax of the final refrain.

Brendan collapsed into the couch, moaning like he’d been mortally injured. He struggled to sit up but failed, sinking deeper into the cushions. Glazed eyes, a shivering body, a weakening constitution. He was the image of a blossoming enchantment, all his strength dissolved by that final release.

“What . . . did you do to me?” Brendan spoke with increasing difficulty. “I thought you were an—”

A small door swung open.

The singing had alerted Israfel’s Thrones, Rakir and Nunkir, and their suspicious glares met Brendan so that he froze instantly. The black-haired Rakir emerged first, the angel’s thin wings arched high above the floor, his figure tall and menacing. His twin, Nunkir, glided behind like the light to her brother’s darkness, her long, silver hair tied in matching braids. Both angels radiated deadly protectiveness, and Brendan sucked in a sharp gasp as Nunkir leaned in close enough to touch him, the tiny jewels on her wings chinking together.

Israfel slid a finger beneath Brendan’s chin, turning the young man’s ashen face back to the light. Humans were so weak. Yet Raziel had chosen to become one of them—a red-haired girl Israfel could snap in two like a twig. And he might never understand why or for what reason.

Thunder boomed through the building.

The storm whipped more rain against the windows. All the candles burned out but one.

“I’ve heard that humans can be fascinating,” Israfel said.

Rakir and Nunkir moved to either side of the loveseat, their wings surrounding Brendan in a feathered prison.

Yes, he might never understand. But—

“Now we can see what the fuss is all about.”