Covenant (18 page)

Still the blasts of pain assaulted them again and again.

Warmth—blood—poured out of Raziel. Angela thought she might pass out with pain as his wings were shredded to fleshy ribbons.

Another flash of light. Another shift in her consciousness.

Now she and Raziel tumbled off the same bridge they had used to enter the highest part of Heaven, and worst of all, Raziel could no longer fly. He plummeted. Angela felt all his inner agonies. There was an image of Lucifel and Israfel flashing before her—certainly Raziel's final thoughts, his greatest regrets.

The ether was so deep it felt like forever until some kind of ground rose up to meet them.

But Angela knew it had come when Raziel's pain ceased, and that last image of Israfel faded away along with the endless terror. Unwillingly, she called out to Israfel one last time.

She doubted he could hear.

Twenty-two

I remembered the day my heart broke, and from that hour, I kept the echo of his dying voice within me.
—I
SRAFEL

Help me . . . save me . . .

Israfel opened his eyes, straightening his body from where it slumped against the wall of Tress Cassel's house. He tipped his head back, taking shallow breaths. Wind whistled through the broken windows of the building, teasing the feathers of his hair. Beneath the sigh of the icy air, Angela Mathers's voice echoed.

Help me . . .

The words were fainter than before. She was probably deep within Hell by now.

Israfel sighed and stared off into the darkness of Luz's seemingly eternal night. He flexed his wings. One of them had been shot with the humans' bullets and twitched painfully whenever he moved it. Another bullet had torn through his shoulder. Over the hours, both bullets had been pushed out by his body, and they now lay in little pools of blood on the floor.

Israfel picked up one of the bullets and passed it between his fingers, examining the smooth metal.

They were such insignificant things, and yet so painful.

Finally, he let the bullet drop and roll near one of the dead humans in the room. Every last Vatican officer had been killed, but there would be more. Israfel had been protected by enough guards in his many millennia of existence to understand what would happen to him next.

Soon, more soldiers would come, and he would either die or be imprisoned.

Israfel's astral energy had been woefully depleted by the battle to save Tress and her mother. Now he needed to wait to build up his strength. Meanwhile, Angela Mathers's voice grew fainter in his mind. At this point, it had almost gone silent. Israfel clutched at his stomach and took another shuddering breath. A door behind him opened and shut, and he flinched.

Feet padded in his direction. Gloriana stooped before him reverently, offering him a bowl of broth with vegetables.

Israfel smiled at her but waved away her kindness.

“It's the least I can do,” she whispered. “Please.”

He took the bowl and held it to his lips, sipping politely. But Israfel couldn't stomach much more human food. Nearly retching at the meaty taste of the broth, he dropped the bowl. Soup splashed onto his legs and the floor. Gloriana cried out softly, already mopping the broth from his legs with her dress's hem.

“Enough, woman,” he said to her. “Take your daughter and go. You have kept your part of the bargain, and I have kept mine. There is no reason for you to linger here any longer. You know that reinforcements will arrive.”

“They will kill you,” Gloriana hissed with anxiety.

Israfel stared out into the snowy night. “I won't make it easy for them. But if you are referring to their weapons, it will take many, many of those bullets to kill me.”

Her eyes widened. “But if they shot you in the head—”

“Even so.”

She looked him over with a pale face. “My daughter and I will always be grateful to you. If you ever need me for anything more—”

Israfel sighed with the irony. “It is you who need me. Indeed, everyone needs me. They simply don't know it yet.” He covered his stomach with a hand and closed his eyes, trying to forget the pain in his head and wings. “But that is no one's fault but mine. Perhaps I deserve this humiliation for my sins. Greatness begins with fallen pride. It is something my brother, Raziel, often quoted. Proud fool that I was, I didn't believe him. Yet I loved when he said such things to me . . .”

There was a long silence.

“Aren't creatures like you above sin?” Gloriana said softly.

Israfel opened his eyes again to find Tress creeping into the room. She took one glance at Israfel and tears rolled down her round cheeks. He held out a slender hand to her, and she crept forward, taking courage from his kindness. “No. We are not above sin. We merely have different sins. Yet there are some common to all creatures with spirit and soul. I am guilty of some of the greatest sins that there are or shall ever be. Whether I wished it or not.”

Tress held Israfel's hand tightly. “Are you staying here?” she whispered.

Her little head turned in the direction of the dead men, and Israfel grabbed her chin, forcing Tress to look at him. “Yes, I will be staying here. But you and your mother shall leave. That is an order, Tress. You will obey your angel, correct?”

She nodded and cried a little more.

Israfel stroked her cheek. “I had little ones like you once upon a time. They were twins, a male and a female, and they often cried out when I had to leave them alone, sometimes for days on end. It broke my heart to know their pain. Will you promise me that you will do what they could not, and refuse to cry?”

“What were their names?” Tress said. She rubbed her eyes.

“Rakir and Nunkir,” Israfel said. “But they are no longer little like you, dear. You must be the same and become stronger for your mother.”

Tress took a deep breath and let go of Israfel's hand. “Okay. I won't cry.”

“Good.” He let go of her chin. “Now go to your mother and do not enter this room again. I will see you again someday, little one.”

She refused to say good-bye but brushed Israfel's wings with a finger. Tress picked up a fallen feather and held it to her chest. Then she raced out of the room to resume gathering together the last possessions that hadn't been broken.

“Thank you again,” Gloriana said. “I hope that you survive, and that you find the Archon as soon as possible. For us all. But, please, answer this one question for me. If an angel dies, where does his soul go?”

Israfel remembered Raziel plummeting to his death. He remembered the millions of angels who had died that long-ago day when Lucifel nearly destroyed the hope Israfel was carrying inside of him. Yet the more he remembered, the more he knew that this human woman could not understand what he was about to say. “His soul goes back to its original home,” he whispered.

Gloriana accepted Israfel's answer with a pensive expression.

Israfel closed his eyes and rested, listening to Tress and her mother mill around the room and gather a few more belongings. Eventually, the door shut, and they were gone to escape to safety, and he was alone with the smell of human death.

Without wishing to, Israfel stepped into the past that danced before his tired eyes. Sorrow haunted him. Sin stained his hands with blue blood. In the loneliness of Ialdaboth he existed, wept without tears, and dreamed without any real dreams. Time slipped past him like a swift current to nowhere.

Israfel, Raziel, and Lucifel were not like the other angels. It had taken the Father's death for Israfel to realize the terrible truth.

It had all been a carefully crafted lie. They'd never had a home at all.

 

Sleep overtook Israfel fitfully. His body was so weak that he could no longer sit up or keep his eyes open for long. After a while the howl of the icy wind poured into the broken home again. Hands grabbed him and tied back his wrists and wings. A soft cloth was wrapped around his mouth and cinched tightly at the back of his head. Finally, he was lifted and slid into something with a cold metal floor.

He awakened by degrees to a dark room of gleaming candlelight.

Israfel stroked the metal floor with his fingertips, and then found the strength to tilt his head and look up.

He was in a gilded cage with thick bars. A velvet cushion had been kindly set in a corner for him, along with one or two goblets of water. Prayer wards written in the Tongue of Souls had been fastened to the outside of the bars where he couldn't reach them.

Israfel peered between the bars, catching sight of a bevy of men with long black robes and coats cinched at the waist. They were human priests, discussing something in earnest, arguing every now and then with whiny upraised voices. Eventually a younger priest caught sight of Israfel awake and motioned in a panic for the others to be quiet. They all turned around and stared at him, fear shining in their eyes. Everyone knew Israfel shouldn't have been caged, yet no one had the courage to free him.

His physical strength was back to a considerable degree. Israfel bit cleanly through the cloth set in his mouth.

The satin fabric slid from his lips to the floor of his golden cage.

“Why am I in here?” he said softly.

The priests stared at Israfel, their eyes widening in awe at the melody of his voice. But no one moved.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded. “If so, you shall release me now.”

Silence.

Israfel pursed his lips, looking over each human in turn. He would be sure to remember their faces and souls.

At last, an old priest with thick white hair broke out of the shadows and approached Israfel's cage slowly. He knelt down and looked at Israfel with respect. “Forgive us, but we had no choice.”

Israfel stood up, leaning over him. “Your name. I do not speak to a creature without the knowledge of its proper name.”

“Schrader,” the old man said with an awed but tired voice. “Please call me Father Schrader.”

“My name is Israfel,” Israfel said. He moved to extend his hand with the palm down as he had done so many times in the past as Archangel. But his hands were tied, and golden bars separated him from the humans anyway. He tried not to show his indignation as he felt crimson stripes blush along his cheeks. “Now you will explain to me why you have dared to imprison one of the Supernals. Was it not wiser to kill me?”

Father Schrader lifted his hands in supplication. “You don't understand. We know better than to kill you.”

“But not,” Israfel said dangerously, “to treat me with due respect?” He didn't give anyone time to answer. “Yet I can see you are all nervous fools. Perhaps you are right and this is your way of feeling safer. If so, remain in your happy illusion.”

Israfel manipulated the ether and undid the ropes tying back his slender wrists.

The priests murmured in distress. A few stepped forward, but Father Schrader gestured for them to stand back. He turned again to Israfel. “Prince of Heaven, we are in dire need of your help. We have been aware of your presence in this city since your appearance a year ago in St. Mary's—”

“That pitiful church,” Israfel said with real disgust. “It is now stained with the blood of your people. But make no mistake. I did not come for your sake, to save you from the demon. I had come for the Archon. Only one of those young women that night had proven herself to be the soul I was searching for. She is now gone from you. I too shall be leaving.”

Father Schrader's face paled, and he appeared to realize something with shock. Silent for a while, he finally said, “Why haven't you left already?”

Israfel regarded him with disdain. The arrogant attitude of these men was so much different from the respectful innocence of Tress and her mother. “I cannot until I reach the proper door. But now that I am aware of its existence, I will find it soon, and then I will leave. Caging me will only prolong matters to your detriment.”

Father Schrader turned back to his companions, and they discussed more, many of the humans gazing at Israfel intermittently with fear, some of them with wonder, a few with pathetic superiority. At last, they all seemed to reach an agreement on something. Father Schrader approached the cage and knelt down again. “Once again, we beg your forgiveness for caging you. You are right in your judgment of us as fools, Prince Israfel. We fear what we do not understand. To us, you are a figure of mythology and legend come to life and a few of us remember vividly the nightmarish evening in St. Mary's Cathedral last year. This is human fear at work, not disrespect.” Father Schrader lowered his head with a shamed expression. “Right now, we are on our knees ready to give you all you desire in exchange for your generous help. The city of Luz is cut off from the rest of the world. The snow and ice continue and worsen by the day. Worse, there is a portal to Hell itself that has opened in our city. In the name of God, we beg you to seal it.”

“One catastrophe among many more to come,” Israfel said shortly. “You are right in thinking I alone can save you from the approaching silence. You are wrong in thinking that your worship in exchange is an acceptable offer. I need absolutely nothing from you.”

“The Archon must be stopped,” a young woman shouted confidently. She was one of the few females mixed in among the men, though she wore the same long black coat. Her face was scornful.

Father Schrader rounded on her instantly. “Lizbeth!”

Israfel gestured for silence. He turned to her. “The Archon will not be stopped. Her existence was to some degree inevitable. You are merely questioning Her potential. How like you to lack any faith in your own kind. Judging by what I have experienced of humanity, you are nothing but savages dancing on a planet as ephemeral as a snowflake. But this world is the linchpin connecting the Realms, and so I have no choice but to consider you and deal with you all. You have the eye of God on you, then. But closing one portal to Hell will not save you. Another may open elsewhere, and I will already be gone. This process will continue until I change things.”

Israfel refrained from saying that he was satisfied with the circumstances. The humans were ready to take him to the threshold of the portal he needed to enter. As for sealing it, he was sorely tempted not to save them from their fate. From what he had seen so far, human pride and cruelty had few boundaries.

He stared at the priests, aware that he appeared weak and somewhat human but had thankfully managed to maintain a majestic demeanor.

Silence descended again.

“You saved Gloriana Cassel from being captured by the city's police force,” Father Schrader finally said. “Why?”

Israfel narrowed his eyes. “I do not see why that is your concern.”

Father Schrader cleared his throat. A distant look came to his eyes, like he was thinking of someone specifically as he spoke. “She and her daughter were blood heads. But they will not be able to run forever from the higher authorities in the city. If you help us seal the portal to Hell, we will work to suspend the arrest on her and grant blood heads throughout the city amnesty unless they are caught explicitly in the act of witchcraft.”