Covenant (12 page)

How human and weak he appeared. But his eyes were still large enough to give away the difference if someone peered closely.

“You've decided to come.” A woman's soft voice broke the silence.

She stepped out of the shadows, opening her arms for the little one. Tress ran into them, almost glowing with excitement. “Mama, an angel! An angel! There were bad men in the alley, but he saved me from them, and—”

“Hush,” the woman said, putting her finger to Tress's lips. “I know. Now go upstairs and continue packing your trunk. And wash your face—you're filthy.”

Tress gave Israfel one more longing glance but obeyed and clattered up a rickety staircase.

The woman examined Israfel with veiled eyes. She was tall for a human, and her hair glistened a coppery red shade near the candles. A shawl covered most of her chest and shoulders, and her long skirt had been patched and repatched with dozens of colorful fabric swatches. “We don't have much time,” she said very slowly. Her hand gripped the back of a chair, trembling a little. “My daughter and I will be going to the lower levels of Luz before the Vatican can find us. It's no longer safe for people like us here, but we can't leave the island. I do not have much help I can offer you.”

“You know why I am here, woman,” Israfel said gently. He stepped deeper into the room. “I thank you for your generosity in keeping me alive with your food. Being trapped here for so long, I am not quite myself . . .

She watched the movement of his feet as if entranced, but quickly regained her senses.

“Why?” she said and took a step backward, instinctively putting distance between them. “Why do you stay on this Earth? You say you are trapped as well, but how?”

Israfel sighed. “Indeed, I tried to leave Earth over a year ago. But the Realms, the dimensions of the universe, are slowly collapsing one by one. This means that portals in and out of Earth are closing or disappearing entirely. I attempted entering a portal right as it sealed, and suddenly I found myself flung violently back to Earth. I was weak already, having used most of my energy to keep a human from death.”

“The Archon,” the woman said with grim certainty. “She is alive and moving among us, isn't she?”

Israfel watched her carefully. “And if she is?”

“Go to her,” the woman said. “I am sure she can help you better than I.”

“I cannot go to her just yet,” Israfel whispered.

Tress's mother questioned him with a stony expression. “Raziel was your brother, correct?”

Israfel struggled not to show the pain on his face. “It does not surprise me that you know of our history.”

He wouldn't tell her that the Archon was not Raziel. That she was a total mystery, with an unidentifiable yet enormously powerful soul. One that Raziel had deemed important enough to spend a possible eternity protecting.

“I am learned enough,” the woman said. “The Vatican tries to keep much arcane knowledge away from ordinary citizens of Luz. But secrets and legends always have a way of traveling from eye to eye and ear to ear. For a long time, I flaunted the existence of my shop, knowing I couldn't be touched without evidence of witchcraft, as they like to call it. But with my daughter . . .” She turned aside, deep anxiety stealing her confidence. “It is not fair of me to put her in danger. She has suffered through much. We have grown poor simply trying to stay alive. Now that blood heads are being gathered, sought after . . .”

She shuddered.

“I will reward you well for your generosity as soon as I have returned to Heaven,” Israfel said. “But first you must help me leave this Earth. Your daughter told me that you have a mirror.”

“Yes,” the woman said. She walked to the cracked mirror framed in bronze at the far end of the room. “I have used it for scrying in the past. It is the only mirror in this city with a connection to the other worlds. I went through great pains to obtain it years ago, but never let visitors to my shop know about its existence. If word got out, my imprisonment would be certain. My death, a possibility.”

Israfel stood in front of the mirror, staring at his fractured image. There was still enough glass for him to work with. “Woman, I would have you watch with me. You must say—”

“The words. Yes.” She took a deep breath, appearing fearful.

“However,” Israfel said, “when the visions begin, you must close your eyes. I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise. There are many aspects of the Realms dangerous to human senses. Your daughter?”

She searched the stairs for her daughter, and certain that Tress was upstairs and out of harm's way, she then pulled out a chair and sat far enough away from Israfel to think herself safe. “I'm ready.”

Israfel stared into the mirror, listening as the woman mumbled softly under her breath. Human or not, the words she spoke would have the intended effect. It was the power and desire that counted. He watched and watched, sure of his skills. Israfel had spent enormous lengths of time staring into the Mirror Pools of Ialdaboth. He had discovered the Archon's existence in the reflection of those pools, one long and lonely time ago.

Help me . . .

His mind turned and shifted focus. An image began to form within the dark shadows of the mirror. Gradually, it swirled and strengthened, taking shape from his power.

Angela Mathers, the Archon, appeared in front of an immense and ugly black door. Israfel could not identify the companions beside her, but that mattered so little. He recognized the door that she was opening and entering. It was a portal to Hell. At least one still remained, perhaps because the Netherworld had been emptied. Previously, all humans had to die and pass through the Underworld to enter into Lucifel's kingdom. Yet with the Realms blurring together, old portals would close, and new ones would spontaneously form before disintegrating entirely. This one was a holdover.

Lucifel knew she was running out of time. She fully understood the risk of bringing the Archon through such a dangerous route.

Israfel clenched his long fingers. His sister must have known something about the Book that he did not.

Help me . . . Save me . . .

It was Angela Mathers's voice Israfel had been hearing. A sharp heat rushed through him as he remembered their brief kiss.

No. It was far beneath him to feel anything for a mere human. And if she was not really Raziel reincarnated, he had every right to crush his feelings whenever they arose. So why when Israfel looked at her did this odd confusion spring up in him? Why did he feel this need to understand? Why did he constantly wonder who she really was, and why Raziel thought her special? Was it her physical similarity to Raziel? What could it possibly be?

“I thank you again,” Israfel murmured, breaking his trance. “I now have my freedom back.”

The situation was not ideal. He would have to enter Hell through the same door. From there, he could find another stable portal back to Heaven.

There wasn't any other choice.

Yet the idea of entering his sister's mockery of a kingdom filled him with disgust. And worry.

Israfel pressed a hand against his stomach. If anything were to happen to him . . .

Then again, perhaps he could kill Lucifel first. She would not be the only monster he'd eradicated.

“You said you would help us,” the woman replied, rising from her seat.

Israfel smiled. “In good time. As I said, I must first enter the other Realms and regain my power. But rest assured, I will keep my promise to you and your daughter. Please give her my farewell and my thanks.”

He turned and started to leave the house.

“You will die before you can help us,” Tress's mother said after him.

Israfel paused. His head throbbed, and his vision swam for a moment.

“You are very ill,” the woman continued. “But what kind of disease can kill an angel? I wonder—perhaps it would be better for you to stay on Earth, after all . . . how much longer can you possibly have?”

“I still have time,” Israfel whispered. “Not much. But some.” He reached for the knob of the door, refusing to face her again. In the background, he could hear little Tress's shallow breathing. She had clambered back down the stairs in the short time Israfel and her mother had been talking. Israfel didn't need to look at Tress to sense the confusion in her soul.

A series of swift and violent knocks hit the door.

Israfel pulled his hand away.

“Vatican police!” a harsh human voice shouted in muffled tones. “Open this door now!”

Tress's mother gasped. She pulled Tress close to her, hiding the little girl's face against her thick skirt.

“Gloriana Cassel,” the voice shouted again. “You are under arrest for the dissemination of occult materials, the corruption of Luz civilians, and for involvement in the murder of Westwood Academy student Nina Annabelle Willis—”

“Nina?” Gloriana gasped again. “She's dead? That—that can't be true.”

“Mama, what's happening?” Tress said, crying.

More harsh knocks met the door. “Open up or we will be forced to break down your door!”

Gloriana held Tress closer, wiping at the girl's tearstained face. “Don't cry, dear. They won't hurt us. I'm sure we'll be all right.” She looked at Israfel with hope in her eyes. “Sometimes help arrives in the most unexpected ways.”

There was a pause while something heavy thrust against the door.

Gloriana and Tress stared at Israfel, pleading wordlessly.

Without a word, he glided away from the door and stood in front of them, pushing them even farther back with his hand. Gathering every bit of energy floating in the ether, he revealed the six wings that had been lost to him for so long in a blazing glory of light. Tress cooed in wonder as they unfurled in their expanses of snowy whiteness, but Israfel stayed silent and refused to look at her. He would pay dearly for using this much energy right now. Already, tremors of pain ran up his arms.

“Thank you,” Tress said in the softest voice.

Israfel smiled in spite of everything. “You're welcome,” he replied.

With a horrendous
bang,
the door slammed open and smacked into the wall.

“Everybody freeze!” the harsh voice shouted into the room.

Five men in long black coats burst into Gloriana's house, but immediately halted at the sight of Israfel and his six wings shining with majesty. One of the men had paused with a gun pointed in Israfel's direction. His hands shook like leaves in the wind, his thumb fumbled with the trigger. He seemed unsure whether to shoot or scream. His eyes widened with shock and terror.

The gun fired. A bullet raced for Israfel's head.

Yes, Israfel would pay dearly for all this.

He lifted his hand and tugged on the ether, willing the bullet to slow down. It came to within a foot of his head and clattered harmlessly to the floor.

Feeling dizzy already, he took the route typical of his long-ago days as ruler of Heaven and made sure not an ounce of pain, discouragement, or emotion showed on his face. “You would be wise to leave,” he said in his most commanding and persuasive voice. “The battle will only get worse for you from here.”

In answer, three more gunshots echoed throughout the house.

Sixteen

Every world connects to another. Time is perspective. Journeys and stories are exactly the same, and what humans call myth we know as reality.
—T
ROY

Once, on a cold night that now seemed ages ago, Angela had dared to ask Sophia about the time she'd spent as the Book of Raziel trapped in Hell. They had been talking for hours, mostly about trivial topics that Angela knew disguised a deeper longing to share with each other. But sharing was something they both had little real experience with at the time. Angela had mistrusted relationships of any kind for too long, hardly knowing how to approach painful subjects. The strange distance in Sophia's eyes often suggested the same.

Now, descending farther into Hell, Angela flashed back to the coldness in their room as the fire had gone out.

“Sophia,” Angela had said, grasping the Book's small hand, “tell me what it was like when you were in Hell for all that time. I want to know.”

Sophia stared at her, trembling, like she didn't know whether the question was a joke or not. At that exact moment, the rain had ceased. Only later would Angela look out the window and see Luz's first steady flakes of snow.

“It was dark,” Sophia whispered. “Endlessly dark. And stifling. There is an acidic river coursing through the deepest parts of Hell, and I can still taste the vapors stinging and numbing my tongue.” She took a deep breath, like the memories called for a gathering of her strength. “I don't remember much else. I try not to. But I do know I passed countless years wishing. That's part of my punishment, you see. Ever since I died . . . I've been wishing.”

“For what?” Angela whispered with her, forgetting to question just how the Book of Raziel could die.

“For this.” Sophia had squeezed her hand and smiled.

Angela could still feel those chilly fingers.

Sophia—I'm going to get you out of here. You don't belong in this place at all.

Besides—there's still so much I have to ask you.

Sophia had mentioned once that she had originally died giving birth to children. The subject had never been brought up since, yet it plagued Angela, resurfacing at tense times like these.

Sophia's the Book of Raziel. She doesn't have any children. She must have been lying to me when she said that . . .

Angela clutched at her necklace, aware that her mouth was tightening into a line. No, Sophia wouldn't lie to her. Just like with Israfel, there was a part of Sophia that Angela couldn't yet comprehend. Perhaps
that
was the key to everything.

Angela gasped, a rush of adrenaline firing through her.

She tripped and stumbled off the last stone step, nearly falling onto the ground.

Troy was beside her already, examining footprints in the dust. Her nose wrinkled in distaste, and an evil look crossed her face. “Sariel was here,” she said with a low hiss.

Angela steadied herself with Nina at her side. Her heart beat violently, anticipation flooding out her fear.

Juno hopped down beside Troy. The crow Fury perched precariously on Juno's shoulder.

The Jinn chick rustled through the gloom and brought a scrap of black fabric to her aunt. Troy tore the scrap from Juno's hands and studied it, her eyes narrowing despite the sickly glow of an ember set in the wall.

“That belongs to Kim?” Angela said, stooping down beside them.

Troy growled under her breath. She shoved Angela aside, searching for more clues. But there were none, and they found themselves standing in the gloom of a circular chamber covered from floor to ceiling in the alien writing that Angela found so disturbing. She rubbed the sharp peaks and curves of the script, sensing a familiarity.

Briefly, Angela thought of Stephanie's demon now long dead and the writing that had been tattooed on the demon's neck.

“What does this say? Can anyone read it?” Angela whispered.

Nina touched the scripting, running her fingers across the cool stone. “We live in deference to the Prince,” Nina said, reading aloud and slowly. “We serve her and no other. She is our god. Let all who now enter this place fear and adore her . . .”

“
Quiet,
” Troy snapped, thrusting Nina away from the wall. “Those are prayers, fool.”

“To who?” Nina said, bewildered. She rubbed her arm. Troy's nails had left some thin cuts.

“To Lucifel, I'm sure,” Angela said very softly. “Troy's right. We probably shouldn't read them aloud.” She turned around, gazing at Nina. “Nina, how did you even know what those words said? How could you read them in the first place?”

Everyone looked at Nina, equally curious.

Nina shrugged. “I was dead once. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

“You would do well to stay as silent as the dead until you're told otherwise,” Troy muttered. She edged nearer to a series of lines and markings and set her hand against the stone, following a different set of symbols.

Angela peered at the markings closely. Nothing made much sense, until she used her imagination and recognized a river, a city of jagged spires in a great cave, and a vast plain. Other markings resembled nothing she had ever seen before. She did notice the etched figure of a horse with a large horn—it resembled the horse carved on the door they'd entered and the horses Stephanie had drawn on her walls.

Ride,
she could almost hear Stephanie's voice saying in her head.
Ride away while you still can . . .

“What is this?” Angela said sharply.

Troy's ears flicked. “A crude map of Hell. There is the Styx River,” she said, pointing to the thick line in the map's middle. “Here is the demon city of Babylon,” she whispered, sliding her nail to the etched city. Troy frowned, and she dug her nail into what remained of the picture.

Angela sighed. “You're right. It isn't much help. It doesn't even tell us where we are.”

Troy glared at her as if to say,
Who would bother to return and say so?

Then Troy stood on both feet, suddenly fearsome and tall, and paced forward into the blackness. As everyone followed her, the darkness receded slightly. It wasn't long until they stopped before three passageways, one to the right, one to the left, and one directly in front of them. A banner displaying some kind of serpent with plumes on its head hung in tatters from the middle tunnel.

“Oh, perfect,” Angela whispered. “So we have to choose?”

“We don't
have
to,” Nina said. “There are three tunnels and five of us. Counting the bird anyway.”

Fury croaked from Juno's shoulder, but clearly wasn't about to leave it.

“No,” Angela said firmly. “We're absolutely not splitting up. If we choose a tunnel, we go down that tunnel together.”

But if they picked the wrong one . . .

This was awful. There were no better choices in a game like this.

But at least there were clues. The tunnel with the snake banner caught Angela's eye again.

That tunnel looked like an entrance to something. And the snake marking could mean that it would take Angela right to the demon who had helped Camdon. Or straight to Lucifel. Either way, Angela couldn't get Sophia back without reaching one of them.

“Okay,” Angela said. “This one.”

She walked closer to the entrance of the tunnel, searching the shadows for monsters. The air wafting toward her smelled stale and the air tasted almost vinegary. That at least matched with what Sophia had described to Angela about her time in Hell.

Angela stepped forward. The Grail in her left hand throbbed, and beneath the bandage, moistness—probably blood—wept into her palm.

That should have meant trouble. But there was nothing except silence and darkness.

“Wait. Hold on a second,” Angela said, stopping everyone behind her. She tore off her left arm glove.

Juno scampered closer, but when the Grail appeared, Troy dragged her back. “You do not look at it, chick,” she hissed.

Angela stared at the Eye, or the stone that resembled one, nestled in her palm.

Its onyx pupil glistened wetly and all too lifelike. Angela couldn't explain it then, she couldn't explain it now, but when she was sucked away into the Eye's depths she always felt a panic that swiftly evolved into familiarity, like she'd been in such a fathomless place many times before, grasping an infinity that was hers alone.

Troy had once thought the Grail's omniscient gaze would drive Angela mad, yet Angela had surprised everyone that day by claiming the cursed rock fearlessly.

Lucifel had been the first of the Grail's owners, and also the first to use it to conjure the Glaive, a pole arm of crystalline blue blood that practically fed on the lives it stole. Now this dreaded weapon was the Archon's property, the symbol of Ruin so many believed She stood for. The lives it had taken were now Angela's responsibility. But she had no desire for her friends to join the ranks of the dead.
What are you trying to tell me?

The Grail wept a little more blood, and then the Eye blinked closed. Angela slipped on her glove. Like a gunshot in the silence, Fury croaked in alarm. Everyone tensed, gazing down the tunnel.

A tall figure strode toward them from within a heavy fog. Gradually, the mist receded and a young man with thick black hair touched by purple streaks emerged from the darkness.

Troy inched forward, flexing her nails.

“No, don't,” Angela whispered.

“It is a demon,” Troy snapped. “And this is my chance to kill it.”

“They would have killed us by now too,” Angela retorted. “Don't do anything until I say so.
That's an order.
”

Troy stepped back, muttering viciously under her breath. She grabbed Juno by the back of her rags and dragged her to a safe corner.

As the demon approached, Angela discerned the phosphorescent violet paint on his eyelids. He was barefoot, though his feet and eyelids were both lightly scaled. Otherwise, he was much like a human being with handsome, arrogant features, a mischievous smile, and horridly pale skin. Angela drew back only at the sight of his orange eyes and their snakelike pupils. A tattoo with the same demonic writing as the walls peeked above the low neck of his clothing.

He stopped in front of them all, examining each with burning eyes, lingering with interest on Troy and Juno.

Finally, his thin lips spread into a smile. “It looks like I'm just in time. You aren't dead yet.”