White Heart of Justice (6 page)

“In Metatron's grave?” Ben said.

Glashia shook his head. No one else volunteered. “Ms. Onyx?” Glashia prompted. “Your thoughts?”

“In Metatron's oxcart? The first ‘House of Metatron'?” I was way too unsure of my answer this time to state it with any sort of confidence. Glashia didn't even acknowledge that it was incorrect. He just frowned and looked around the room for other volunteers. Gordy's magic tendrils were getting so bad, it was starting to feel like I'd fallen into a nest of vipers.
He was anxious,
I thought. Well, so was I. But at least I was able to keep my magic in check now.

“Metatron's squire was the last person seen with the White Heart,” Glashia finally said. “There was a footnote,” he said grumpily, shuffling through the papers on top of his lectern. He located the reference and held up the paper snapping it between his hands before lowering it to the lectern again. He peered down at it, squinting. “Here it is. Footnote two hundred and eighty-seven.” He looked up at us again and motioned impatiently when he saw that we still hadn't located it. To a person, we all scrambled to comply. After flipping through three of the chapters that had been assigned for today, I finally located the footnote:

287. Kaspar Bialas
: Chosen by Metatron to be his squire because Bialas had several unusual Hyrke characteristics, one of which was Bialas' immunity to magic. Legend says Bialas was marked by Luck's hand in the same way that Luck marks his waning magic users, but that Bialas' mark was as light as a waning magic user's is dark. It is no longer known what the mark was.

Class continued in similar fashion for over an hour. We discussed all the modern bounty hunter cases next—in extraordinary, excruciating, mind-numbing detail. Finally,
thankfully
, the class came to an end. I packed up my books and was just about to leave when Glashia called me back to his lectern.

“If you win the Laurel Crown, what will you choose to do for your residency?”

I could have just told him—
I'm going to become a riverboat sentry and work for the Jayneses
—but instead I said,
“Aut laborare aut pugnare parata sum.”
To work or fight; I am ready.

Glashia peered at me, his gaze steady. After an uncomfortable moment, he nodded.

“I hope you chose to do both, Ms. Onyx,” he said finally, handing me an oversized thick white envelope.

“Friedrich Vanderlin had this delivered for you here just before class.”

I smiled and thanked Glashia. Hopefully, this envelope contained a letter from Friedrich Vanderlin accepting my apology for destroying the Justica statue—and a positive response to my petition for a Guardian. I waited until I was downstairs in the lobby of Rickard Building before opening the envelope. Inside it was a single sheet of thick white linen paper embossed with black ink. It wasn't a letter accepting my apology and it wasn't a positive response to my petition for a Guardian. Instead, it was an invitation.

A
RCHANGEL
F
RIEDRICH
V
ANDERLIN

REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY

AT AN OATH CEREMONY

E
MPYR

8:00 P.M.

Chapter 5

I
couldn't ignore the invitation, nor did I want to. I had no idea who was going to be taking what oath, but this could be my chance to set things straight with Friedrich and the Divinity. So in between my remaining classes that day, I decided on my outfit. Under ordinary circumstances, agonizing over clothing choices would have seemed like sartorial silliness at best and appalling vanity at worst, but no one—especially someone who wanted a chance to offer the Angels an olive branch—would make the mistake of showing up underdressed for an Angel event.

In the end, I opted to dress in white and silver (my nod to the Angels; they loved white and bright), but other aspects of my appearance were a nod to the Host. I wore a bustier, as I had in the Gridiron, but this one was made of delicate silver chainmail. I'd found it in a vintage arms shop in Northbrook over the break. The lustrous patina proclaimed its age, which was easily ten times mine. To counter the idea that I was showing up in battle gear, however, I paired it with a silver satin skirt, which had a train long enough to pool at my ankles, and a shimmering wrap. Since Angels loved ornamentation, I fastened the wrap at my throat with a star-shaped diamond cloak pin.

That night, I stood in front of my dorm room mirror, assessing. Ivy, who'd had no small part in helping me select my attire for the night, was sprawled across her bed. I couldn't help but remember the last time I'd dressed for an event at Empyr—the Barrister's Ball, our first semester. It was the night I'd rejected Peter's plan to use the Reversal Spell to reverse my magic. The night I'd first told Ari I loved him.

Something sharp pricked my finger and I looked down to see that I'd managed to stab myself with one of the pins from Ivy's hairpin box. A small drop of blood welled.
Damn,
I thought, grabbing a tissue. I fight every day with weapons forged from fire and magic and it's the prick from a small metal pin that makes me want to cry. I viciously pinched the tip of my finger with the tissue.

“Do you think Peter will be there?” Ivy asked.

“I hope not,” I said, tossing the tissue in the trash can.

“Do you think Rafe will be?”

“I'm not sure. I haven't seen him since the festival Friday night and he never said anything about it.”

“Do you miss—” Ivy stopped suddenly and I stilled. I knew what she'd been about to ask.

Did I miss Ari?

Yes. I did. Every day. Still.

But it wasn't as if I wasn't getting on with my life.

“Do you think it's a mistake?” Ivy said instead. “The headband? I mean, on you, it almost looks like a crown.”

But not the crown I want,
I thought, smiling at my reflection. It was true. The white sapphire headband I'd found in Ivy's hairpin box did look vaguely crown-like when combined with the rest of my outfit. Even I had to admit, I looked impressively regal. And the best part? Amongst all the white satin, sparkling gemstones, and shimmering silver, my demon mark looked even darker.

Who could refuse the woman in the mirror?
If dressing for a ceremonial oath had been an Artifice assignment, Glashia would have given me an A. The only thing marring my appearance was my lost tooth. Maybe I should have taken Rafe up on his offer of an illusion.
Too late now.

I turned to Ivy, wanting to leave on a profound note, with some sort of proclamation befitting the woman in the mirror, but all I could think of was
don't wait up
and
make sure you lock the door behind me
. I squeezed Ivy's hand and she wished me Luck's presence.

*   *   *

E
mpyr was a restaurant. But calling Empyr a restaurant was like calling the Gridiron a playground. Empyr was a showcase. In it, the Angels exhibited their flair for the dramatic, their love of the refined, and their superb taste in decor, food, and wine. Unlike St. Luck's campus, which had no less than eight buildings sprawled across three city blocks, the Joshua School housed everything (dormitories, administration offices, classrooms, libraries, archives, their eatery, and more) in a thirty-three story skyscraper. It was one of the tallest in New Babylon. Empyr was located at the top. It was said the Angels had heaven in mind when they'd built it.

I entered the Joshua School and was about to hand over my invitation to the lobby clerk when he motioned me toward the winder lift. Either my outfit was already working or I was expected. I pressed the button for the lift and nervously waited for it to arrive. The ride up was solo and silent. Unlike the winder lift in Rickard Building, the Joshua School lift didn't have an operator. (My guess was the Angels thought winder lift operators were old-fashioned throwbacks; Angels were all about modern aesthetics.) When the lift finally reached the top, I stepped out.

I hadn't been to Empyr since the month of Blostm, eight months ago. The decor was unchanged, but the murmur of voices and the tinkling of glasses I'd heard here on my two previous visits were completely lacking. I walked down the hallway toward the main dining room, taking care to keep my train off the ground and my head held high. After all, I didn't want it to look like I was coming to Friedrich with my head down (or my tail between my legs). I wanted to make up for the loss of the statue and be allowed a Guardian of my own choosing. But I also knew the best negotiation strategy was to start from a position of strength.

Since there was no hostess or seraphim at the door, I walked right in.

And stopped short.

The invitation had been a setup.

Unsurprisingly, the room had been arranged for a ceremony instead of dining. So instead of white linen draped round tables laid with china, silver, and crystal, there were rows of seats with an aisle up the center. The candles that the Angels were so fond of lined the aisle in abundance. At the end of the aisle was an altar, upon which were more candles. Not a single electric light lit Empyr tonight. The room was full of Angels who were seated in the rows. Seated on the altar were Friedrich Vanderlin, Valda Sinclair, my father, and—this was the surprising part—Peter Aster.

When I stopped at the entrance everyone turned toward me and stared.

“Welcome, Ms. Onyx,” said Friedrich from the front, his voice loud and clear. “We're glad you could join us. Please . . . come forward.”

Did I have a choice?
My desire to offer the Angels an olive branch faded. If Peter were a part of this ceremony, I wanted no part of it. In fact, I now began to worry in earnest over who was taking what oath tonight.
Had Friedrich finally capitulated on allowing me the services of a Guardian? Was
Peter
the Angel everyone in here expected me to work with?

I walked slowly up the aisle, outwardly maintaining my regal bearing, hoping I looked calm and in control. I kept a tight hold on my magic.
Now
would not be the time to repeat past magical meltdowns. But inwardly I was starting to panic. As unobtrusively as possible, I searched the audience for Rafe. Even if he was here, I didn't know how he could help, but I couldn't help wondering if he'd been aware of any of this or if he knew what Friedrich was planning.

My father's involvement was puzzling. His presence seemed to suggest that he approved of Friedrich's intentions. But Karanos had never been fond of Peter and since the altercation at Lucifer's tomb (the night that Peter had used Ari's near death to force me to make promises I'd never have made otherwise), Karanos had shunned Peter as I had.

I reached the altar and met Karanos' stare. As usual, his face was expressionless and his signature was cloaked. He appeared as outwardly calm as I did. Maybe he'd capitulated as well and had decided that Peter was a better Guardian for me than no Guardian.

My gaze switched to Friedrich and then Valda. Their expressions were nearly identical to those they'd had the day they'd observed my Gridiron match with Vicious (Friedrich looked almost happy; Valda looked contemplative). I nodded my head to each of them in turn. Anything more would look like a bow and concede too much. I then turned my gaze to Peter and smiled, intentionally baring my teeth—and lack thereof.

The look on Peter's face was worth it. I was quite certain, in that moment, that Peter Aster never would have thought he would see Nouiomo Onyx standing before a crowd of over forty people, included among them an Archangel, one of the Amanita, and the executive of the Demon Council, looking as beautifully savage and self-assured as I did just then. Peter's eyes widened and his jaw hardened as his gaze zeroed in on my unmistakably dark mark amongst all the white. He'd always hated my mark. I turned back to Friedrich. If Glashia were awarding points during this ceremony I'd have taken the first one. I'd given no ground and I'd already caused Peter some discomfort.
Score: Onyx, one; Angels, zero.

“Nouiomo Onyx of Etincelle,” Friedrich began, “daughter of Karanos Onyx, the current executive of the Demon Council, and Aurelia Onyx nee Ferrum of the Hawthorn Tribe, you have petitioned the Joshua School for a Guardian Angel.”

I stiffened and my signature pooled with
expectancy
—a battle preparation response. Luckily, no one but Karanos would be able to sense it and he would simply see it as good practice.

“In the past,” Friedrich continued, “I've denied your petition for two reasons. One, prior to your petition you told me in no uncertain terms that you did not desire a Guardian, and two, reparations have not yet been made for your destruction of Metatron's Justica, the irreplaceable Angel artifact you destroyed last summer.”

Friedrich waited for my reaction. When I didn't react (none seemed appropriate or advisable; I wanted a Guardian, but not the one who was sitting on the altar), he said, “It is my understanding that you now wish to have a Guardian formally assigned to you and that you wish to make reparations for the ruined statue.”

He paused again, waiting for my response.

“That is correct.”

“Then I'm prepared to grant your petition. The Divinity will provide you with a Guardian Angel and you will make ‘suitable reparations.'”

It was exactly what I'd hoped for, except . . .

“Will I be able to choose the Guardian?”

Friedrich laughed. “Aren't you the one who petitioned us?” he asked. “The practice of allowing Host to pick the Angels that guard them is a boon. The practice could just as easily go the other way, with Angels choosing who
they
wish to watch over. You lost your right to choose when you walked out—”

“Surely, Friedrich, you don't expect her to work with just anyone,” Valda cut in, her voice as brittle as a thin sheet of ice. She turned toward me. “Peter Aster told us that he knows where the White Heart is.”

“The White Heart,” I repeated slowly and somewhat dumbly.

“Yes, Noon,” Valda continued calmly, as if she were describing the cut of pork she wanted me to pick up at the butcher rather than a near-mythical, magical sword that hadn't been seen in centuries, “
Album Cor Iustitiae?
The sword that Metatron made for Justica? You see, we've worked everything out with Karanos and the Demon Council. Your target for the Laurel Crown Race can be the White Heart. If you retrieve it for us, we will consider it as suitable reparations for the statue you destroyed.”

Oh, boy.
Glashia had suspected, although I'm not sure how, and he'd done his best to warn and prepare me. Even so, despite all the strides I'd made since last year and the training I'd received, I was still finding it hard to breathe right now. In hindsight, a chainmail bustier probably hadn't been the best idea.

I glanced up at Peter. His blond hair was tied back and he wore a white cloak lined in black. He sat in his chair as if it were a throne and he were a tyrant. I assumed from his hostile expression that he'd guessed I wasn't going to work with him willingly.

“There are lots of theories floating around about where the White Heart might be,” I said finally. “How do we know Peter's is correct?”

“Because I have the thief's journal,” he said, holding up a small leather-bound book. “And it says, in his own hand, that he took the sword to—”

With a flick of her wrist, Valda silenced Peter.
Whoa.
I'd known Rafe could cast spells using hand gestures, but it was an Angel trick few knew. Most Angels only cast verbal spells. They were supreme orators. Angel culture was wrapped up in their love of languages. Their spellcasting abilities came from their voices. So seeing an Angel silenced so easily, so effectively . . . well, it was almost chilling.
Was it an Amanita trick that Rafe had “borrowed” from his mother?
Rafe had an unfortunate habit of pilfering other Angels' spells.

On stage, Friedrich looked uncomfortable. Valda smiled. Her smile was very unreassuring.

“Ms. Onyx has not yet agreed to work for us. Details will be provided only if and when she does.”