Seraphs (16 page)

“Grumpy, huh?” Ciana said, pulling me down the steps and into the cold, dim day.

“Yeah.” I smiled, swinging her hand as we walked into the icy morning. “Very.” Lowering clouds promised an early dusk and poor light, and probably snow. Again.

The library was on Upper Street, down from the shop a half block, and filled with stacks of books. A lot more than when I went there as a schoolkid to study and do research. The publishing industry had been mostly inactive for nearly seventy years after the Last War, and had only recently reemerged as a power. Heavily controlled by the Administration of the ArchSeraph, a dozen companies nevertheless produced some twenty thousand books a year.

The latest fiction publications, romances, mysteries, and adventure were on the front shelves of the poorly lit room. Reference books were midway back, and Ciana joined a gaggle of kids already there, poring over the big tomes. The older books, Pre-Ap books, were elsewhere. On a Saturday morning, I was the only adult patron.

Fortunately, Sennabel Schwartz was disposed to help me. The plump blond woman behind the counter had run the library for years, since she was a teenager herself, and had helped me look for reference books when I was in school. She had seemed all grown-up then, but with the perspective of time, she couldn’t be more than five or six years older than I was. And although she had been afraid of me when I was first revealed as a mage, she had been civil since.

A public servant, she wore an orthodox gray dress, but with a rebellious, frilly yellow apron over it. Lined across the counter in front of her were framed photographs of her kids, the youngest in a high chair, laughing and looking cute, if messy, eating something red and sticky.

“What can I help you with, dear?” she asked.

“I, uh.” I unclasped my battle-cloak and tossed it over a chair, adding gloves and my scarf. “I need to see a copy of Enoch I.”

Sennabel looked around to see that we were alone. Satisfied, her face lit with anticipation. “Is this mage stuff?” she asked, her voice lower than her usual librarian hush. “Study for fighting the Dark?”

I repressed a grin. “Yeah. Mage stuff.”

“I have an old copy. I can’t let you take it with you, but you can use it here. And I can provide you with a notebook if you need to take notes.”

“That would be very nice,” I said, at my most polite.

Sennabel bustled into the next room and returned carrying a thin book and a pair of white cotton gloves. “This volume is well preserved. It was translated with annotations back in the early nineteen hundreds. That’s Pre-Apocalyptic times,” she lectured me. “It contains Enoch I and the other books of Enoch, along with Greek fragments, but according to scholars, only Enoch I is worth much for seraphic studies.” She led me to a table, where she placed the book, gloves, a pen, and a pad. “The other books may be of Byzantine origin.

“Wear these gloves to protect the pages from the oils on your fingers. Make whatever notes you like on the pad, tear off the pages you use, and leave the rest. And I hope you find what you’re looking for. If I can help in any way—any way at all—just let me know.”

I was surprised at her chattiness almost as much as by her willingness to help. “Thanks.”

“And if you get a moment someday,” she said, her eyes glistening, one hand at her throat, “we could, maybe, have tea? Or coffee?”

I finally realized that Sennabel had become a certified mage-chaser in the weeks since I was outed. Mage-chasers made good friends, and I was in pretty short supply of friends in Mineral City. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Oh. Well,” she said, pleased, her hands fluttering. “I’ll get back to the children.”

“You’re good at that,” I said, the words coming from nowhere. Sennabel flushed to the roots of her hair, said, “Oh,” a few more times, and all but raced away. Smiling, I laid my walking stick across the table near to hand, sat down, and put on the gloves, which were far too large. I understood what an honor Sennabel had bestowed on me. She had left me alone with an ancient Pre-Ap book; not a recent copy, but a book well over a hundred years old. Carefully, I opened it, hearing the crinkle of old paper. I paged through the introduction, and started reading.

Enoch I was apocalyptic in nature, dealing with the end of the world and the judgment of the unrighteous. Typical of scripture, it was flowery and hard to follow in places, but I understood that Enoch was purported to be a man who was righteous and holy before God, living before the time of Noah. Quickly, I found the first mention of Watchers, who were angels who went “to and fro on the face of the earth,” watching humans.

In chapter six, I got to the good stuff. “And it came to pass when the children of men had multiplied, that in those days were born unto them beautiful and comely daughters. And the angels, the children of heaven, saw and lusted after them, and said to one another, ‘Come, let us choose us wives from among the children of men and beget us children. . . .’ And they were in all two hundred, who descended.”

There followed the names of Watchers who had come to earth for the purpose of mating with humans. I recognized one of the names associated with Satan, a name heard in newscast video from the Last War.
Azazel.
A cold chill found its way under my clothes. Had the Fallen seraphs chosen their names from this manuscript after they came to earth at the apocalypse, as the EIH insisted? Or were they the true High Host, fulfilling prophecy? Blocking out the children’s voices in the front of the library, I read on.

“And they . . . took unto themselves wives, and each chose one for himself. They . . . defiled themselves with them, and taught them charms and enchantments . . . and made them acquainted with plants. And they became pregnant and bore great giants . . . who turned against them and devoured mankind. . . .And began to sin . . . and to devour one another’s flesh and drink blood.”

It sounded a lot like the minions of Darkness, especially walkers and spawn who drank human blood and ate human flesh, and didn’t much care if the victim was dead first. I heard Ciana’s voice and a burst of childish laughter as I read on.

“And Azazel taught men to make swords, and knives, and shields, and breastplates, and made known to them the metals and the working of them . . . and the use of antimony . . . and all kinds of costly stones. . . .And there arose much godlessness.” Unsettled, I skimmed the next few chapters, seeing other skills the Fallen taught humans, and perceiving parallels that baffled me. Parallels that had as much to do with the history of neomages as with humans.

I found myself sitting back in my uncomfortable wooden chair, staring up at the ceiling, gloved fingers laced. Ciana, as if to reassure herself that I was still here, peeked around a tall library stack and waved at me. I smiled and waved back. She held up a book and stage-whispered, “Can I check some books out?”

I nodded and her head disappeared. I hadn’t made a single note, but now I wrote, “Stone mage, metal mage, earth mage, sun mage, moon mage, sea mage, weather mage, water mage, are all the things the Fallen Watchers taught mankind. Gifts that are now practiced by mages, using creation energies.” Was that significant?

My eye was caught by a name in a list of Watchers and the hidden knowledge they taught humans, and the hairs lifted across the back of my neck. “Baraqijal taught astrology.” Was he the same Fallen as Baraqyal, the seraph that sired the first kylen after mating with a neomage? Had he been a Watcher? Had he been Fallen?

I read on, discovering that angels in heaven heard the cries of humans who were being tortured, humans begging for help from the cruelties and horrors of living beneath the rule of the Watchers and their immortal descendants. “And Michael, Uriel, Raphael, and Gabriel looked down from heaven,” and saw the evil on the earth, the evil perpetrated on humans by the descendants of Watchers and women. The four high-order seraphs, each a prince, took the prayers of humans to the Most High and asked him to judge the Watchers. The Most High was angered at the Watchers and their offspring who were abusing humans. He warned that a flood was coming to wipe evil off the face of the earth. The same flood that Noah survived.

“And again the Lord said to Raphael, ‘Bind Azazel hand and foot, and cast him into the darkness: make an opening in the desert . . . and cast him therein. And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there forever. And on the Day of Judgment he shall be cast into the fire. . . . To him ascribe all sin.”

The Most High continued, as he damned the immortal children the Watchers bred on human women. They had become giants, warriors, and so were condemned to fight among themselves and kill themselves off. They were condemned to live in physical bodies no more than five hundred years, and after physical death they became demons, until the end of time, when the Most High would judge and destroy them.

The Watchers themselves were stripped of many powers and bound to the earth, unable to ascend to the heavens again. In desperation, the Watchers asked a human man, Enoch, to intercede before the Most High. The Lord said no to that plea. And the Most High added that humans would judge the Watchers at the end of time.

The chill that had invaded me deepened by the time I got to the end of the book. I wrapped my battle-cloak across my shoulders and curled my toes in my boots. The story of the Watchers explained a lot about the End of the World: the plagues that had come with the appearance of the seraphs of death, the wars and pestilence, the deaths of over six billion humans. While it didn’t explain the appearance of the neomages, it did hint obliquely at us. If I was reading the meaning correctly, the book of Enoch I was the first ancient scripture implying the advent of mortals who could work with forbidden knowledge. Had the Watchers stolen the next creation from the hand of the Most High? Had the mages been expected at some point? My thoughts were blasphemy. Sacrilege.

And Forcas? Was he one of the Fallen Watchers? One of the Watchers who had not repented? Or a demon child of a Watcher?

Forcas had both my blood and Stanhope blood, and blood from Gramma’s line. He had a seraph or two and a cherub imprisoned in his lair. And he was making plans to free his boss.
Crack the Stone of Ages.

I had to learn how to use my visa so I could call for seraphic help before innocent blood was spilled. And I had to learn fast.

Chapter 16

As I was closing the book, a loose, folded page fell to the floor. It was as brittle as the
Book of Enoch,
though it was thicker, heavier paper, and larger than the book’s pages. I opened it, revealing a handsome script penned in ink. I read the words. “Now, the End of Time has come. Watchers fight on both sides of the Holy War, some allied with the Dark, some with the Light. Those allied with the Light search and hope for grace, for forgiveness. Humans are caught between, neither of the Dark, nor of the Light. They alone are able to choose.”

It wasn’t dated or signed. But when I looked at the note with mage-sight, it glowed softly. Though a mage may not have written the words, sometime, somewhere, a mage had held the note. Had imbued it with power. The
Book of Enoch
showed no such energies. It didn’t shine with power at all.

I turned the sheet of paper over and over. Lolo? Had she put the page where I might find it? Was this one more in the long list of her intrigues?

“You ready to go?” a voice whispered. “I have all my research done.” I looked up at Ciana, her head again peeking around the stack of books.

“And how many books are you checking out?” I whispered back.

“Seven. Miss Sennabel says they’re reprints from Pre-Ap times. And they’re really cool. Is that okay?”

“If Sennabel says they’re appropriate for your age, sure.” I stood, tucking the mage-marked note back in the
Book of Enoch
. Maybe some other mage would need it someday. If the library and the books survived whatever was coming to Mineral City.

On the way out, I tucked the thin volume into the crook of Sennabel’s arm, along with the gloves. “Thank you,” I said. “If you would like to come by Thorn’s Gems at closing, we could have tea or coffee. That is, if you live close enough for me to walk you home after.”

“I’ll be there,” the plump woman said, her face lighting with pleasure. “Tea would be lovely. I’ll bring shortbread cookies and some strawberry preserves I put up last summer.”

“Great,” I said, meaning it, as I followed Ciana out and into the street. Together we walked to Thorn’s Gems, where my stepdaughter curled up in a corner to work on her report, and I went to work filling Internet orders. From the nook beneath the stairs, I heard the far-off cry of the lynx. Hunting? A warning for me? What else could go wrong in my life?

False dusk deepened throughout the day as blizzard-strength winds blew in and back out. Disputatious, the storm deviated from the forecast, heading farther south than expected. As blizzards went, this one was a bust for Mineral City, but heavy clouds remained, hiding the surrounding peaks, settling onto housetops, turning the town dim and murky.

As the shop was closing and false night was falling, Sennabel opened the door with a jaunty clanging of the bells overhead and peeked inside. She was dressed in a bright blue cape, a red tunic, and leggings. Her hair had been freshly washed and plaited, coiled into a crown. Hanging prominently around her neck was a necklace of glass beads with a focal stone of pale green agate carved into a turtle. It wasn’t expensive, but it had been crafted and sold in the shop. Over her arm she carried a covered basket that smelled of cinnamon, yeast, and honey. Sennabel had clearly left the library hours earlier and gone home to get ready.

Taken together, it was a public affirmation of me. A lump rose in my throat at the extra time and care that had gone into planning for what had been, to me, a nearly insignificant visit. I felt dowdy and callous and ill-prepared. All I had done was make tea on the shop’s gas-log heater, though I had gotten out the good china and the silver spoons Audric had dead-mined from his claim, and some starched and ironed linen napkins.

Behind Sennabel came Polly, the elder’s wife, equally stylish and well dressed, wearing full skirts and a Thorn’s Gems necklace. My mouth fell open. Sennabel seemed delighted at my surprise. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I brought another—”

The display window beside her shattered. Instinctively, I covered my face, ducking as glass shot in. An explosion sounded outside. Screams echoed, full of terror. Through the open door and empty window the warning sounded. “Spawn! Devil-spawn! To arms!”

With an expression of disbelief, Sennabel touched her face. Blood trickled on one cheek, and she stared at her hand in confusion. Polly fell, bumping the librarian to the side. A spawn gripped her waist, its teeth buried beneath her breast. Mage-fast, I grabbed Sennabel and spun her inside, out of the way. As she was falling to the floor of the shop, cape swirling wide, I pulled the tanto from my right sleeve and raised it over Polly. With three fast cuts, I severed the spawn’s head from its body. For an instant, its eyes rolled up and looked at me. In a death spasm, its teeth clamped down tight. Belatedly, Polly screamed. I pushed her inside and grabbed the walking stick from the umbrella stand at the door.

The stench of sulfur filled the shop. A massive dose of battle-lust thumped through my blood. Mage-sight flicked on, and my flesh burned bright. I reached for my amulets but saw spawn attack a man in the street, his body a silhouette on the snow. First, I had to get outside.

“Audric!” I shouted, whipping the blade from the walking stick sheath. I slammed and locked the door to the shop and whirled to the broken window. Four spawn, their naked molelike bodies mottled shades of red and gray from dove to charcoal, were crawling inside, three-fingered hands ripping out broken glass to make the hole bigger. Spawn blood coated the sharp edges, black in the evening light. Rows of razor teeth snapped, their reddish bodies writhing. I dropped the sheath and beheaded two, slicing the arms from another. A dozen more shoved the dead from the window and wriggled in.

At the top of the stairs I heard Audric’s battle cry, “Raziel! By blood and fire!”

The window of the door cracked and shattered. Spawn crawled through the new opening. Claws scrabbled on the porch above the door, on my porch. Behind me, Polly’s screams had subsided to a panicked litany, “Get it off get it off get it off get it off!”

A fleeting look showed her peeling at the spawn’s head, their blood mingling in a gory rush. Jacey and Sennabel were bent over her. Ciana peeked around the opening beneath the stairs. She had been researching online. I sliced and cut, taking down half as many as I needed to protect them. “Ciana. Bring me the marble sphere from beside my bed!” In a flash she raced around the corner and up the stairs. Her seraph amulet was blazing at the presence of the spawn. Dodging her, Audric and Rupert ran from the stairwell, swords drawn, and scythed into the pack rushing in.

A horde converged on the broken windows. Time dilated and stretched, my blades spinning in apparent slow-motion. A smell like rotting roses and stagnant water blew in, for a single breath overriding the spawn stench of sulfur and brimstone. Outside, a man fell to one knee in the street, stabbing a spawn with a long-bladed knife. Another spawn rushed from behind, sinking its teeth in his neck. From the side, a second blade dropped, cleaving through the top of the beast’s head to its spine. It fell, shuddering like an insect. A second twisting sword thrust decapitated it. Eli stood over the injured man, pouring fluid over him from a clear bottle. I had a second to wonder what he was doing. And then spawn were inside.

Audric and Rupert took up positions to my left and right, Rupert at the door with its broken window, Audric eight feet from me, standing in front of Jacey and my visitors.

I spun into the swan, the move flashy, used to cut multiple opponents at once. Five spawn fell to the floor. My feet slid in bloody muck, my shoes smoking. I kicked spawn bodies to the side. I wasn’t wearing battle boots. The leather of my shoes smoldered, sliding on blood or sticking to the wood floor with each step. The black blood ate through my copper-colored tunic, burning my flesh. I ignored the sting of the acid blood. If I lived, I’d heal.

In the street, something long and multijointed raced past, too fast for sight, leaving the impression of many legs and an armored exoskeleton. Bodies were lying on the snow in the gathering night, dead humans and spawn tossed together.

Ciana shouted, “Thorn. Here.” Underhanded, she tossed the sphere. It lifted from her palm, twirling and spinning beneath the lights overhead. I stabbed the tanto into the body of a squirming spawn and reached up, over my head, to catch the sphere.

“Outside,” I said to Audric. He leaped over the opening in the window. Rupert sprinted through the broken glass of the door. “Behead the spawn. Then stay put,” I shouted to the women, pulling the tanto from a lifeless body. “You too,” I said to Ciana.

Two strides took me through the window, landing beside and behind Audric. The snow cooled my heated shoe soles, icy wind cut through my clothes, and my skin rose in chill bumps even as my night vision sharpened. I opened the ward stored in the sphere. Instantly, the entire building came alight. Spawn screamed and plummeted from the wood porch and metal roof, surprising me. I hadn’t expected residual power to cross them. “Nice,” Audric said as he and Rupert whacked at spawn. “Too bad you can’t do the whole town.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, sucking in deep breaths and stretching, preparing while I could.

South of us, across the street, spawn crawled through broken windows into shops. People screamed. Gunshots exploded with flashes of light. Though spawn are hard to kill with bullets, humans often resort to them, and cordite scented the air. West, to our right and downwind, Thadd and the assey Durbarge stood together in the night, hacking a six-foot-long beast, something that looked part centipede, part wolf. Three women stood to the side, watching, seemingly calm.

Odors of sulfur and brimstone were interspersed with the more repulsive smells of rot and dying flowers, scents reminiscent of incubus, but less harsh, more sour and cloying. Looking fast, I scanned the street upwind and saw a woman knocking on a door. In every particular she was human, but for the smells that gusted on the frozen wind and the fact that she was naked beneath a sheer gown. In mage-sight she looked like a mannequin, her flesh dull. She was glamoured. A man opened the door of the house, light falling on her face.

I knew her. Jane Hilton. The woman who claimed to be Lucas’ wife. Opening her clothes, she reached in for the man. He touched her breasts. Fell on her.
Feathers and fire. A succubus.
At another house, a second succubus knocked on the door. It too opened, and inside a man and woman fought; the woman to keep him inside, the man to reach the beast who called to him. She too looked like Jane.

I scanned the three women watching Thadd and Durbarge. They were succubi as well, but were visually different from the Janes. I started in shock as a light fell across them.

They looked like me.
Crack the Stone of Ages,
they looked just like me. Except they were voluptuous, like sex toys made for a man’s erotic dreams, and they had no scars.

As I watched, Thadd dispatched the thing he fought, cutting it in half. Spinning, his seraph ring spitting sparks, he attacked the nearest succubus, slicing her across her huge breasts. She squealed and raised her arms in defense, the sound of an animal in pain. Thadd wouldn’t confuse us. Not a kylen. But the smell of her blood was a mingling of the familiar. I stood still, the longsword hanging in my hand, trying to parse the scents. A spawn attached itself to my ankle and I flipped the blade, decapitating it. The smells blew away. My mouth felt strange for a moment, a bitter taste coating my tongue.

A shadow from above warned me and I lifted the tanto, the blade meeting a body, catching on bone with a jar I felt to my teeth. Spawn legs went one way, the torso the other. It would have landed on Rupert’s shoulders and bitten into his neck before he could respond. None of us were dressed for battle and, like mine, his neck was exposed.

To our right, Eli Walker fought three mole-bodied beasts with a sword and a strange-looking gun. All I could see of the weapon was a two-foot-long, inch-wide barrel with a bag strapped beneath his arm. He beheaded a spawn with the blade, turned, and fired. When he pulled the trigger mechanism and squeezed the bag, a cloud shot out the barrel, ignited by a spark. It was a one-handed flamethrower, but the flames it shot weren’t ordinary fire. Spawn liked fire, dancing in rings of it at Dark Feasts. But with this fire they screamed and burst into flame. Above the stench of roasting spawn, I smelled eucalyptus and rosemary, kirk oils used for anointing.

Just beyond Eli, Zeddy fought in front of Jacey’s door, bleeding from multiple bites, lit by the ambient light from the window. A horde of spawn tore at him. My weight on one heel, I twisted toward him, an instability in my stance.

Three spawn sprinted demon-fast at me. Lifting the sword to block, I reached for a throwing blade, my fingers tingling. The hilt caught on the sheath strap, altering the downward momentum of my hand. I lost my grip and dropped the throwing knife and the tanto into the snow. Almost in slow motion, they disappeared into a drift.

Panic caught at me. I looked up, repositioning my feet. I still had the sword and slashed at the attacking spawn, taking off a hand and part of a head in a fountain of blood. My face and neck burned where it splattered. My hands, coated with spawn blood, were blistered, but I felt nothing. They were numb. The spawn fell back. I saw Zeddy fall. Spawn swarmed over him. “Zeddy!” My voice sounded thready, my breath uneven.