Covenant (6 page)

Seven

The angel Raziel wore a coat of stars, and his winged ears shone with jewels. His beauty was something the human mind cannot comprehend. But he never attended the formal dances of Heaven. Always wise, he knew stars are dimmed by vanity.
—S
OPHIA

The loud knocking continued.

Together, Angela and Sophia stared at the door like it was what they both feared, a portal that would spew out demons eager to rip them apart too soon. With the noise ringing in her ears, Angela found the strength to slowly walk to the door and peer out the peephole.

A man in a long black coat, with a sizable box tucked under his arms, whistled to himself as he waited on the porch stairs.

Slowly, Angela opened the door. Her chest tightened, and her hand burned. “Yes? Can I help you?”

He glanced at her, startled. “Are you Angela Mathers?” he said brusquely.

“Yes . . .”

“This is for you then.” He thrust the box into her arms.

Angela staggered back a little from the weight. “Um, all right, but—”

“Good day to you, miss,” he said just as brusquely. “Have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

He sped off the stairs and down the street, his silhouette disappearing in the haze of snow.

Angela lugged the box into the house and shut the door, keeping more snow from entering the foyer. Sophia was already by her side, inspecting the tall package with tense wariness. There was no return address, and the box looked battered at the edges. They stared at it like they had stared at the door, neither speaking.

“Well?” Angela finally ventured.

Sophia pushed her aside. “I will open it,” she said in a tone with no room for argument.

With lightning-fast efficiency, Sophia wrestled open the wrapped lid and ruffled messily through layers of packing paper. Plunging her hands deep into the box, she pulled and lifted out a dress by its midnight blue straps. The dress itself had a short train, but the fabric had been studded with crystals that looked like miniature stars.

Sophia's face was pale as death.

Angela's was probably paler. Her memories raced, and once again she saw ancient images of the angel Raziel in his beautiful blue coat studded with white jewels. This dress's fabric could have been exactly the same, fiber for fiber, though of course the cut and style were miles apart. Someone knew that Angela was the Archon, a human being whose soul shared a special bond with the dead angel Raziel, and the idea that they weren't being subtle about the knowledge punched her in the gut.

She could barely breathe as Sophia set the dress aside. Plunging in again, Sophia took out a silver masquerade mask studded with more white jewels. Finally, she discovered a note.

Angela grabbed it impulsively.

You seem a bit shy, so I thought this might change your mind. I think it would look beautiful on you at the Ball. I'm sure my sister would have agreed. Perhaps I will see you there.

Camdon Willis

Angela let out a shaky breath, sudden relief flowing through her. She'd felt like her nerves had been cut, but now life could return. So—the design of the dress was a coincidence after all.

Yet Sophia's brow remained furrowed. A worried expression had tugged her smile away. “You have to go to the Ball now, I suppose,” she whispered.

“Well, you're coming with me,” Angela said. “And I don't care what Camdon thinks about that. Until we inspect Memorial Park together, I'm not going to leave you alone.” Angela pushed back her long blood-red hair, taking a deep breath. “How can I not go? Did he really have to mention Nina like that again? I don't know what I think of this guy, but I do know that he's smart. I guess it couldn't hurt . . .”

“Of course not,” Sophia said. But she clasped her pendant tightly and never stopped looking at the dress.

 

Saturday evening arrived, leaving only hours until Angela and Sophia could go to Memorial Park and hopefully put an end to their fears. But for the time being, there was the Christmas Ball to think about, and it was admittedly wonderful to forget everything besides music, food, and the joy of being together on one of the most magical nights of the year.

Angela steadied herself against Sophia, trying to climb the stairs of the Grand Mansion in her ungainly high heels. Despite the opulence of the night, the atmosphere weighed upon her, like flakes of iron fell instead of snow. Trying to look experienced and at ease, Angela nodded at other students entering the building. More than a few wore masks in red or gold that matched her own, and their eyes peered at her in curiosity from behind jewels and dyed crow feathers.

Everyone passed across a low courtyard flanked by enormous angel statues.

Angela refused to look up at the statues. The angels' stone eyes could have been following her alone, though that had to be her nerves flaring up.

Yet every second fled by painfully. Foreboding hovered and waited. Maybe they shouldn't have come, after all—

“You look worried,” Sophia said. She climbed the steps beyond the unnerving statues gracefully, deftly swishing aside her silver dress's lace when it got in her way. Her chestnut hair had been braided and sectioned into two elaborate pigtails that would have looked silly on anyone else.

But Sophia had the magical ability to look good doing and wearing almost anything.

“Or,” Sophia continued, “is it just that you're not used to wearing an evening gown?”

“Point taken.” Angela sighed, wishing there was a mirror somewhere. She felt odd, like every other strand of hair was out of place. She took off the mask, finding it suddenly silly. “Actually, I don't think I look too bad considering I've never been to a formal dance in my life. Though I think I have you to thank for a decent appearance.”

It was true. Sophia had splashed lipstick onto Angela's mouth, rolled up Angela's long blood-red hair into a high bun with two glittering combs to keep it in place, and forced her to borrow shoes with heels resembling pointy spikes. Angela had kept the arm gloves, but instead of wearing her favorite leather gloves with holes for each finger, she'd donned elbow-length gloves of opaque black lace.

The result was that Angela looked much older, and she stood half a head taller than everyone around her. But no one could help her balance.

“That's it,” she said shortly. “I'm taking these shoes off. God, they hurt like hell.”

“What? You can't do that,” Sophia said, laughing incredulously. “Your feet will freeze—”

“Watch me.” Angela said, taking off the heels and strolling over to a blonde with black slippers, another straggler entering the Ball late. “Fifty florins to trade shoes,” she said.

In minutes the transaction was done and Angela was a little poorer but a lot more comfortable.

Sophia shot her a rude look. “You know—I happened to like those shoes. I've had them for at least fifty years. A year for every florin, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Angela muttered sheepishly, aware of Sophia's glare as they entered the Grand Mansion's large marble and stone foyer. Angela shivered and rubbed her arms, trying to look more interested in her surroundings.

The Grand Mansion was the special building reserved by the Vatican for Academy dinners, dances, and special holiday festivals. Most students lucky enough to even consider attending the fancier parties had a wealthy background, parents with connections to priests or novices in Luz, and at least a good measure of popularity. Angela was wealthy, having inherited much of her late parents' fortune at her brother's death. She had a connection to one or two priests, and the distinguishing fact that she had managed to survive Stephanie Walsh's insanity counted for something. But she was still a blood head, and Camdon was right—attitudes had started to change.

She and Sophia were an hour late, and the entry hall seemed oddly empty once they stepped into it, yet there were still enough people passing by to make travel slow. A few individuals smiled at Angela, but others steered noticeably clear. Sophia stayed by her side, refusing to shrink under the scrutiny.

“Can I help you?” a man standing at the entrance to the grand ballroom said, glancing at Angela with open curiosity that evolved almost instantly into hostility. He wore a crisp tuxedo, his darting eyes almost the same shade of black. He held a paper in his hand, seeming to scan it already for whatever he thought her name might be. “Which party?”

There was a nasty clip to his voice.

Music poured from behind the enormous curtain, elegant melodies overloaded with the song of violins and the occasional tinkling of piano keys.

“Which party?” Angela repeated.

She had no clue. In a second, she was a naïve new student all over again.

“The one for university sophomores?” she said, already angry at herself for sounding so dumb, and worst of all, for arriving without a plan to meet anyone at the entrance. “I was invited by another student. Camdon Willis.”

Sophia made a slightly irritated sound under her breath.

A brief sense of urgency shot through Angela, and she gritted her teeth. “Listen, I have to get in there. I look the part, don't I? Isn't that enough—”

“You most certainly do not
look the part,
” he echoed her snappishly. He leveled his pen at her. “And if I didn't know any better, I'd say this was a prank. Who do you think you're kidding, walking in here with those hideous marks on your arms? What do you think this is—some hellish little blood head Halloween party?”

“What?” Angela knew her eyes were narrowing. “You think these are fake scars—”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I do think they're fake. I think
you're
fake. And I'm rather sick of you blood heads marching into everywhere like you own the place, like you've always deserved special treatment for your . . . handicap.”

He was almost hissing at her. The faint scent of alcohol clung to him. The room darkened around them, though Angela couldn't tell if it was the slightly drunken anger in his words, the anger growing in her, or the sad flicker of the wall sconces that caused it. Through the marble and stone, an unhealthy cold continued to seep inside and pick at her.

“If I had my way,” the man whispered hotly, “you'd all be taken off this island and eradicated. Why does the Vatican still humor you?” He laughed. “Though it's not surprising. I thought it would be the end of you all after what happened in St. Mary's, with that witch—”

Angela's heart raced. She braced herself against the stone. “You knew about that?”

“My sister died in there,” he said between clenched teeth.

Angela sensed him stifling a deep urge to throttle her.

“Some demon killed her. A demon summoned by a person”—he pointed his pen directly at her—“like you.”

“It wasn't me who killed her,” Angela whispered. Her mouth felt deathly dry. Her left palm burned where the Grail throbbed and throbbed.

Sophia was noticeably angry, her gray eyes almost flashing. But the man was either too tipsy or too upset to care.

“It might as well have been you who killed her,” he continued hotly. “You're all the same. One of you is the Archon and will be the Ruin of us all, yet we can't stop you or get rid of you before you get rid of us. Do you know what it's like to live in constant fear? This island is cut off from the mainland, from the whole world. We're isolated, covered in more ice and snow by the hour, waiting for more angels and hell-spawn to arrive and turn everything upside down and backward again, and yet you and all the others continue to live like it's all a game, or a Christmas miracle. Well, I don't think there are any miracles,” he said, his tone so loaded with pain that Angela couldn't even defend herself anymore. “So—what now? Still want to enter the party and have a grand old time?”

“Yes, actually.” Camdon stepped through the velvet curtain, slightly stooping as he entered the room. “Don't you?” he said to Angela.

Angela bit her lip and turned aside for a moment.

Was she really the kind of person who needed a knight in shining armor to save her?

Not at all. You know where that's gotten you before.

“You know her?” The man gestured at Angela, clearly disappointed Camdon was a blood head and that he might say yes.

“It doesn't matter,” Angela said. “Because I'm going inside no matter what you say. Come on, Sophia. Let's not waste any more of our time.”

“Yes, she's with me,” Camdon said wryly and eyed Sophia as well. “They're both with me. Now if you'd excuse us . . .”

Camdon grasped Angela by the arm and yanked her into the grand ballroom without another word to the fuming guard. Sophia followed only a step behind. Heat rose to Angela's cheeks, mostly because she hadn't gotten the chance to storm through the curtain on her own.

She shook Camdon off and cornered him against the wall. “What the hell do you think you're doing? I had everything under control.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Camdon said, raising his hands. “It didn't quite look that way to me. What was I supposed to do, just stand back and watch?”

Angela let him have some breathing space. “Why do you want me here?” she murmured, trying to smile at the immense crowds of people. The gray marble ballroom was thick with shade and flickering candlelight. Garland and glass ornaments in the shape of globes and stars hung everywhere from the cathedral-style windows. This was the largest room in the Grand Mansion, but hundreds of men in fancy coats, tuxedos, suits, and even the frocks of the novices had overloaded it to capacity, and women in velvet and heavy furs suffocated whatever space remained.

Angela's midnight blue gown received both admiring and envious stares.

“Isn't it obvious?” Camdon said. “You're pretty, and I wanted a partner to dance with.” He looked her over politely. “You do look lovely, by the way. I'm flattered you wore that dress. Someone told me it would suit you perfectly, and I have to admit that person was absolutely correct.”