The Tenth Order (46 page)

It is of no importance.

“We will come to an agreement,” his sister/brother says, her/his face crackling in this sun, light reflecting from its perfect surface like thousands of tiny crystals. Mika’il has always been a beautiful creature, no matter the shape. In the beyond her/his radiance is muted, like the sun behind a cloud, but in the mortal world it takes on a splendor without peer.

“It is unwise to offer threats when one cannot deliver them,” his other brother/sister says, stepping up to look over the edge of the cliff, frowning at the distant mountains. Gavri’el, the poet. Gavri’el, the artist.

His older brother/sister, younger than Mika’il, the middle of the three, does not possess his sister/brother’s transcendent beauty. Instead, Gavri’el’s visage is one of quiet contemplation, like still water on an ocean surface. He has seen his brother/sister spend millennia in solitude, Gavri’el’s face turned from his siblings as he contemplated a single note from a vast symphony.

“I am the eldest,” Mika’il says, and her face clouds over, the brilliance of the sun darkening to a deep, burnished crimson.

“I am the best equipped to govern,” Gavri’el counters, his still features refusing to betray any hint of frustration or anger.

He says nothing as his brothers/sisters squabble, focusing instead on the world stretched beneath them. They were not involved in the making of this world, as they were in so many others. But this one is different. After all, hadn’t the one called ‘Yahweh’ left after its creation?

Or been consumed by it?

“Luk’faer,” Mika’il’s voice turns his head. “Join me. It is my turn to rule.”

“Ignore her,” Gavri’el says, his voice soft and pensive. “I have studied the workings of the universe for time without measure. Join me, and we can find a way to perfection.”

He rubs his chin as his brothers/sisters entreat him to take sides in the fight he knows will eventually become war. It is inevitable, now that Yahweh is fled; Mika’il and Gavri’el have been destined to love and destroy each other since the first moment they saw the other’s face. But he…perhaps he doesn’t have to pick sides.

Perhaps there’s another way.

And down below, nestled in the cracks and corners of this new world, he can see the beginnings of something. Something new. There, those creatures walking on two legs…they look so cold.

Perhaps he will bring them some fire.

The world swam back into focus as Hunter opened his eyes. For a moment he still saw the cloudy peaks of distant mountain tops, superimposed against the rough gray of the stone walls. Shaking his head, Hunter looked up and met Mika’il eyes. She had turned as soon as she felt Hunter’s hand on her leg, his touch temporarily holding her in place. Mika’il’s eyes flared when she saw his fingers wrapped around her ankle, but before she could act words sprang unbidden from Hunter’s lips:

“You were wrong about them, Mika’il. They’re stronger than we could have imagined.”

The Seraphim’s eyes clouded, her anger fading to confusion. She cocked her head sideways and her lips parted as she started to say something, then she stopped herself and shook her head. Hunter saw her mouth the word “impossible.”

He released her foot and stood, ignoring the swirl of combat roiling around Karen as she tried to fight off the two other Apkallu. The noise of their battle dimmed, the walls appeared to expand, and Mika’il and Hunter were suddenly alone. Mist swirled at their feet, a haze of soft, muted light spreading from their bodies and illuminating the surrounding fog.

“You shouldn’t have stood against me,” Hunter heard himself say. “Humanity isn’t a plague or a cancer. Neither are they slaves or broodmares. Your way is that of the sword, sister. Mine may be slower, but all swords rust with time.”

“Luk’faer?” Mika’il breathed, the word barely escaping her lips. Her eyes went wide, and she stretched out a trembling hand as if she would touch him. Her beauty was magnified ten-fold by the simple, honest confusion echoed in her face. Then Mika’il’s eyes narrowed, her arm stopped moving toward Hunter, and she did the last thing he expected.

She ran.

Pushing past Bath, the Seraphim fled the stone chamber, disappearing out the door and around the corner before Hunter had a chance to stop her. Part of him wanted to run after her—the part still alien to him—but the other half told him to stay, to try and save Karen and Oriphiel. Before he had a chance to do either, however, a massive shape hurdled into him, knocking Hunter to the ground.

Rolling on the floor, gasping, trying to catch his breath, he only had a moment to make out his assailant—one of the Apkallu that had entered with Bath and Mika’il—before the man was screwing his thumbs into Hunter’s eyes. He tried to catch the Apkallu’s hands, struggling to find his Paradox, to summon a shred of anger, anything that would manifest his gift, when an ear-splitting crack rang through the room and Hunter’s attacker collapsed against him. Rolling the large man off and onto the floor, Hunter saw that the back of his head was opened wide like a rotten melon, bits of soft gray matter splattered down the back of his shirt. He looked up and saw Jackie standing in the doorway, a large revolver in her hand. It looked strange in her hands, large and ungainly compared to her black Beretta.

She smiled at Hunter, relief in her eyes, and then her face clouded over and she dropped the revolver to the ground. She pointed at something behind Hunter and he turned to look, but there was nothing but empty wall. Turning back he saw Jackie’s eyes had turned a clear, bright white and she was stepping backward, waving her arms in front of her.

Directly behind stood Bath, his lips moving slightly, watching as Jackie tried to ward off a waking dream. Hunter recognized the look in her eyes, and his lips curled back as he threw himself at the little man who was singing in a voice only Jackie could hear.

He aimed for the legs, knowing it wouldn’t take much to bring down the petite Apkallu. He might be a Cherubim, but Hunter had at least fifty pounds on Bath and knew how to use it. But just before he would have made contact, Bath looked down at him, his eyes full of disgust, and the world around Hunter exploded in light. He felt himself hit the ground, the sharp stones cutting his knees as he crashed onto the cold floor. Eyeless in the blinding light, Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, trusting he could find the Cherubim without sight. But even closed, covering his eyes with both hands and pressing until tears streamed down his eyes, Hunter couldn’t block out the light.

He knew the Cherubim had to be close—he couldn’t have missed him by more than a foot or two—but no matter which direction Hunter flung his arms, he found nothing but empty stone floor. He was blinded, but it was more than just sight. The tang of blood and sweat filling his nostrils a moments ago was fading, replaced by a stuffy, dry scent that reminded him of a library.

Sound followed. The scuffling feet and outcries following Karen and her attacker, the ringing of the gunshot, they all dimmed to a distant buzz as Hunter flailed against the ground. Then a sharp crack broke through, and a flare of pain ran up his side. Hunter snarled and rolled across the floor, landing against the wall. Taking a quick second to run a hand down his left side, he winced as his fingers found his ribs—at least two were broken. Before Hunter could collect himself, however, there was another flare of pain, this time from his right arm, and he roared as his forearm snapped in half. Fighting back tears, Hunter swung his remaining arm in an arc, trying desperately to reach his assailant.

“Give up,” Bath’s voice filled the surrounding light, assailing Hunter from all sides. “You’ve lost.”

Hunter swung again, trusting he’d picked the right direction, but it was like trying to catch air. Gasping, his good arm flung before him like a drowning man reaching for shore, he heard another crack and screamed as his three middle fingers twisted backwards.

“Bath!” Hunter screamed, his voice cracking. He wanted to issue a challenge, to tell the Cherubim he couldn’t have him, not like this. He wanted to roar and wail and taunt Bath into a confrontation, anything that would distract the
Adonai,
b
ut the words refused to come. He was tired. So tired of running, of fighting impossible battles, of surviving on nothing but luck and the skin of his teeth. Adrenaline was retreating, and in its wake all Hunter wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

Then the surrounding light gave a brief, final flare and disappeared.

The steel-gray of the stone room snapped back, and Hunter blinked in the sudden dimness, trying to gather his bearings. To his left stood Karen, still fighting with the
Elohim
Power that Hunter recognized from his time at the fortress. T
he
Elohim
seemed to have taken the worse of the battle: hundreds of small, dripping cuts ran along his face and peeked through rips along his torso and legs. Large tufts of hair were gone, and one of his eyes had swollen shut and was already turning a deep shade of purple. But Karen hadn’t escaped unscathed—her lip was split, a long red line dripping down her chin and settling at her feet, and one of her shoulder’s drooped in an unnatural angle, suggesting dislocation. Compared to her enemy, though, Hunter thought she looked pretty good.

In the corner lay Jackie, eyes closed, slumped against the wall with her feet drawn up and her mouth slightly agape. Next to her was the crumpled form of her Apkallu assailant; a large, tattered hole occupying most of his forehead, blood-pooling around his vacant eyes. Even though she was only a dozen feet away Hunter couldn’t tell if Jackie was alive or dead. He wanted to run to her, to verify she was okay, that she still lived. He would have, he
planned
to
…but then he saw the center of the room.

There, bathed in a discordant, light-bending vortex of what looked like dust and gas, stood Oriphiel. Blood streamed from her torn abdomen and battered face, and her remaining free arm was wrapped around Bath’s waist. A look of utter horror filled the Cherubim’s wide eyes. Hunter didn’t know what had caused Bath’s fear—the Throne was hardly an intimidating figure—but something in Oriphiel’s face had changed. It was grim, sad—determined. It looked like someone getting ready to say goodbye.

“No!” Hunter yelled, throwing his hand forward, body still prone and frustratingly far from the Throne. He didn’t know what she meant to do, but Bath’s look of dread mixed with Oriphiel’s stoic resignation didn’t speak well for either of them.

Hunter tried to push himself off the floor, and screamed in agony as his broken arm collapsed. Oriphiel turned her gaze from Bath and met Hunter’s eyes. She smiled once, that infuriating grin, then wiped a long streak of blood from her stomach and drew a pattern on her face. She did it quickly, in rough, quick stripes, but Hunter still recognized the letters of the Celestial Alphabet.

Bath opened his mouth, finally freeing himself from whatever compulsion Oriphiel had laid on him, but the Cherubim never got a chance to sing. Oriphiel drew her bloody hand from her face, slapped it over Bath’s mouth and winked at Hunter. She opened her mouth then, but before Oriphiel could say a word the vortex surrounding the two suddenly brightened and the Cherubim and the Throne were consumed in a whirl of dust and smoke.

Hunter couldn’t move. He watched in silent shock, tears running down his face in channels of stone dust and blood as the Throne disappeared in a maelstrom of smoke. Dimly, Hunter heard voices shouting his name, but he couldn’t look away from the Ladder. His last chance, the only person who knew the truth about Hunter—the Sword, his destiny as a fallen Seraphim, why the Apkallu were so intent on destroying him—was gone. He would never be able to ask her what it all meant.

The Ladder, which had only been a faint haze when Hunter first saw it, almost imperceptible without his gifts, had turned into a raging tempest. The column of twisting aether still stretched from floor to ceiling, but was expanding rapidly. It had already grown from a tight cylinder to a tornado that was rapidly consuming the room.

Arms wrapped around Hunter’s waist, struggling to lift him to his feet, but the sensation felt distant and removed, like it was happening to someone else. Hunter’s eyes were still fixed on the cyclone, wide and unblinking. Then his wrist screamed in pain, and he looked down to catch Karen squeezing his arm.

“Oww!” Hunter hollered, pulling his arm back and cradling it to his chest.

“Get on your feet, you fucking idiot!” Karen yelled back, yanking at Hunter’s good arm. Reality set in, and Hunter saw that the tempest was only a few inches away, moving closer with every passing second. Eyes large, Hunter scrambled to his feet, grabbed Karen and ran toward the door.

Jackie was waiting on the other side as they barreled through. Glancing behind him, Hunter watched as the Ladder consumed the two unconscious
Elohim
they’d left behind. As the tempest touched the first a shiver ran through his body, the Apkallu’s eyes flickered, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Silent, because the swirling dust and light had already taken his face.

“We have to help,” Hunter started back through the door, but Karen pulled on his broken wrist again, and a flare of red pain stopped him.

“No time. You go in, you’re not coming out.”

“You can’t leave them like that,” Jackie said. They were the first words she’d spoken since joining them.

“You want to save them, go for it,” Karen shook her head. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”