Chapter Thirty Three
Audiat's eyes narrow, watching critically as Ariel approaches the follower. The she-angel glides over the marble floor more than she walks, and her wings turn platinum in the starlight, two silver teardrops against her flowing black gown. With a tip of his dark head, the Nephilim greets Ariel – not with a hint of surprise or a smidgen of fear or even respect in his air.
Struck by the oddity the boy provides, Audiat tilts her head to one side. A question lurks near the back of her mind, wondering what Ariel, the powerful archangel, could need with that particular servant late into the harrowing hours of White Wolf's reign, but such a petty ponder is quickly replaced by more deserving thoughts.
A cold hand grips Audiat's shoulder. She jumps back, craning her head until she meets another pair of crimson eyes.
"Audie. We need to talk."
Bryon wears a peculiar suit as he dusts off a beautifully carved wooden hutch, the smooth black fabric adorned with tassels along the edges. He's around twenty in age, younger than I've ever seen him in the flesh, but he looks odd not clothed in his usual brown, bronze, and beige color pallet. Somehow, it makes his eyes burn brighter, and the tumble of brown hair over his forehead even more metallic.
The room in which he resides is grand – the ceilings soar high and are ornamented with paintings like in regal cathedrals, and every furnishing seems beautifully constructed. A gleaming golden chandelier dangles from the ceiling. Plush carpets blanket the hardwood floors – I smile, noticing that Bryon's feet are bare as he wanders the area, dragging his sandals behind him with one toe.
When the glossy wooden doors are thrown open with a rattling boom, he quickly slips back on his sandals, and whirls around, duster in hand, to face a drunken Raffe swaying in the doorway.
"Ah…" He swallows, setting down the feather duster. "Is the party over already, sir?"
Raffe grunts, throwing out a hand to support himself on the doorframe. He blinks up at the chandelier, eyes fuzzy, seeming almost annoyed with the light it casts. After staring up at it for an extended period of time, he mutters something too soft for me to hear and throws himself at a plush couch.
Bryon's eyebrows pinch together. "Ah, sir, how much did you have to drink?"
Raffe waves a hand dismissively, muttering something into the couch cushion. His snowy wings shuffle and unfold, as if the stress of the party can be released with that simple action. Some of the white feathers are stained with dark red and brown splotches – not as dark as blood; as if it's only wine and beer.
Tilting his head to one side, Bryon obviously studies the same feathers. "I suppose much more than advised. Sir, you should probably get to bed. Tomorrow, you can carouse, drink more, and get wasted again, but tonight, you should rest up."
"DON'T MOCK ME!" Raffe roars, pushing up from the couch, his face contorted with rage. "I AM WRATH OF GOD!"
"Yes," Bryon soothes calmly, approaching him with submissive gestures, "you are. But even God's mighty wrath sleeps on occasion. Surely your bed must be more comfortable than that couch."
Raffe mumbles something about insufferable monkeys and shoves himself from the couch. He slouches lazily on his feet, barely making it a few feet before he collides into a dresser. Then, he makes it maybe two, leaning against the wall.
"Here." There's almost warmth in Bryon's eyes as he approaches his old enemy with open arms. "Lean on me. I can help. I'll carry you."
I expect Raffe to accept Bryon's help – maybe with a bit of groaning and moaning, maybe with grouching and slouching. But I don't expect Raffe to react violently.
Fury blazes to life in Raffe's eyes. He whirls around and grabs Bryon by the shoulder, his knuckles going white with the force emitted. Then, after securing the crushing strength on his shoulder, Raffe slams his fist into Bryon's stomach.
"I DO NOT NEED YOUR HELP!" he bellows.
Bryon mewls with pain as Raffe punches him again.
"I DO NOT NEED ANYONE'S HELP!" he snarls.
If I could cry out, I would, as Raffe's fist this time makes something snap in Bryon's ribcage.
"LEAST OF ALL YOURS!"
Raffe tosses Bryon backwards as if he weighs nothing, sending my uncle reeling into the same sofa he himself had collapsed on. The crystals on the chandelier rattle with the force of the impact. Scowling to himself, muttering about monkey weaklings, Raffe hobbles another step towards the bed, before toppling onto the hardwood floor.
Bryon starts to cough – the awful, rasping coughs that are usually accompanied by juicy spurts of crimson blood; his hacking is no exception to that unkind rule. But instead of splattering the disgusting red all over Raffe's fine couch, he covers his mouth first with his hand, then with a strip of his servant's suit's fabric. Pushing himself up from the sofa, shaking his head, coughing up rivers of blood into the napkin, Bryon limps over to Raffe.
He takes the unconscious angel and slings him over his shoulders. The gentleness in his shaking hands is astounding, especially considering the turmoil he'd just undergone. Swaying with the effort of supporting both of their weight, Bryon painstakingly drags Raffe to a massive four-poster bed.
Letting Raffe slump over the ground, as limp as a dead body, perfectly still aside from the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Bryon pulls back the layers of blankets and comforters until he reaches the mattress, and then positions Raffe on the bed as gently as possible, cradling his head on the feather pillow and swaddling him in blankets. Bryon even goes so far as to hobble into the kitchen and hobble back with a pot to place at the foot of Raffe's nightstand, assumedly for the next morning's hangover.
My vision of the pair begins to fade away as Bryon painfully makes his way back to the feather duster, picks it up in shaking hands, and finishes his job.
But it doesn't fade as it normally does – I feel as if I'm being dragged backwards instead of falling backwards, and, when everything comes back into focus, it's as if I'm staring at a mural.
Not a mural. A stained glass window.
See the truth. Urgency strengthens the voice's power, and my vision is steered to another portrait bleeding colored light. Know the past.
Again, I find myself with Bryon and Raffe – this time, though, Raffe is of perfect health, and Bryon is the one with little strength.
Raffe leans on a balcony overlooking a busy work yard with bustling slaves dragging equipment to and fro – the men and angels bound in shackles work in the heat of the desert sun without water nor shade, stamping their feet on the red earth between towering mesas, gazing longingly towards the shadows cast by rock piles slowly creeping over the ground towards them. Enslaved angels seem to do most of the grunt work, padding down the mine shafts pitting the ground, and humans merely cart around the prizes they dig up or equipment. Raffe seems to be overseeing the activities, scowling as he does so, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Dragging his feet slightly, Bryon walks slowly up to Raffe from behind. Though it couldn't have been more than two or three days that I'd skipped, Bryon looks worse than before; a black eye blemishes over his face, as if it hadn't looked worn enough. His once curbed and elegant suit is frayed and filthy. Something about the way he winces with every step tells me that either his foot had gotten screwed up recently or the rib – maybe even ribs – Raffe had broken still bother him. The weariness in his gaze catches me off guard – I've never seen him look so tired, never seen past his happy façade this easily.
"Sorry I'm late, sir," he rasps, voice hoarser than it'd been days before. "It won't happen again. I promise."
Raffe turns his head towards Bryon, looking at him over his shoulder. "I want to keep you around, Simon," Raffe murmurs quietly, voice deathly soft, "but you show up late today, and yesterday, you didn't show up at all. You left me with some stupid monkey bitch. I want to warn you, your incompetence will be your downfall. If this happens one more time…"
If I didn't know better, I'd say that Bryon is hanging his head. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again. I'll make sure of it."
Raffe harrumphs, and channels his attention back on the scurrying slaves below. "Fine. Well, I don't have anything for you to do right now. You might as well fetch me some cold water. With ice. Or maybe something with a little more kick..."
Bryon peers over the edge, and his eyes widen. After a brief hesitation, he shakes his head. "No, sir," he says quietly, "I can't do that. I'm sorry. If you have nothing to do for me, I want to help out down there."
Raffe's navy blue eyes roll angrily back to Bryon. "Are you refusing a direct order, Simon?"
"No." He tilts his head to one side. "I'm refusing a bratty preference. It's not like I'll do any harm down there toying with servants, sir."
Lips quirking, Raffe studies Bryon with something akin to praise. "Fair enough. Have fun."
And, immediately, Bryon vaults over the edge of the balcony. My eyes widen, wondering if Raffe will notice anything out of the ordinary as his "human" servant jumps from a two-story balcony and lands lightly on the balls of his feet, but he's too caught up in sulking about the heat to notice much of anything. In fact, the only one to really see his leap is the old man that'd most likely gotten his attention in the first place.
The man's arms and back are cut with slices carved by cruel blows of a whip – some are old and silver, tracing over his skin like tattoos. Others are more recent, angry pink in color, complete with puckering flesh. Most, however, are red and oozing, created by a nasty recipe of grime, sweat, pus, and blood. He's only skin and bones, without a scrap of meat or fat to keep him going. He's harnessed just like any of the younger men are, but, clearly, the man is too frail to continue his work.
Hovering over him is an angel, half-draped in the shadow of the balcony. The brutal strip of leather curling down from his fist is raised threateningly as he growls angrily at the old man, snapping the whip around his feet as he struggles to stand. The only things I can truly see clearly are his reddish skin and the beautiful dappled brown wings he lifts balefully.
Bryon lands elegantly between him and the elder, eyes blazing defiantly. "Quit that. Now. I'll take his haul."
"What?" The angel's confused growl is vaguely familiar. "Get outta the way, you. We don't have time for Raphael's pet around here."
Bryon's gaze darkens further. "I'll take his sled full of supplies and two others. From now until whenever this man's work hours end. Not one sled at a time – all at once."
The angel's eyebrows lift. "You want to work yourself to death with three full sleds?" He lowers the whip. "Be my guest."
It takes next to no time for the elder to slip from his restraints. The old man thanks him lavishly, scuttling off to visit his grandchildren and escape the heat of the day, leaving Bryon to bake in it.
Bryon takes off his shirt before strapping on his harness, revealing the filthy bandages that were once white, now caked with blood and filth. Dark purple bruises mottle over his chest, especially at one shoulder and his stomach. He grimaces as he tightens the chest and waist strap of his harness – they both run across the livid purple contusions, the coarse leather biting into his skin. But with determination and good old pain, he tightens them until he's satisfied, and clasps three sets of sleds to the designated rings on the harness.
Initially, I think it's impossible for Bryon to drag supplies to the other end of the work yard – it's a mile or two apart from the mine shaft closest to him and the farthest one, and the angel is especially malicious as he piles the three sleds high with equipment, instructing Bryon to fill them to the brim with the metal nuggets the angelic slaves are digging from the earth.
Bryon does it, though, vanquishing all doubts. It takes him a few slow, painful steps to get moving. The leather bindings creak and groan as Bryon digs his heels into the red sand of the foreign desert, and the three sets of ropes tying him to the sleds all go taut. Sweat mats Bryon's hair. Slowly, ever so slowly, he steps forward again and again, until he gets a constant rhythm going. And then he walks as fast as any of the other men, with three sleds hissing in his wake, their side panels scraping against one another with each step he takes.
Before he makes it to the opposite side of the mining tunnels, the subject of my dream changes abruptly. Now, I am back with Raffe, and a guest I had not expected.
"You're perplexed by him, aren't you?" Audiat hums, approaching Raffe from behind just like Bryon had. Her ruby eyes glow tenderly in the desert's cruel sunlight, and gentle shimmers of soft rose pink are illuminated through her white hair by the bright light.
"Who, by Simon?" Raffe grunts, twisting his head around to cock an eyebrow. "Suppose so. I can't see why anyone would want to do that."
"He is a man of God," Audiat explains, leaning on the rail beside Raffe. "He does what's right, no matter the personal pain it inflicts. God knows he's more than patient with your messy lifestyle." She casts Raffe a sideways glance. "You shouldn't be so hard on him, you know."
"Silence." Raffe straightens his spine and shades his eyes, frowning deeply. "What is that runt doing? Why is it approaching Simon?"
Audiat follows his train of vision, and the little color her pale cheeks can provide drains. "Oh, dear God, no."
And, just like that, my point of view shifts again. If I had cheeks at all, the color would drain as well.
A little tiny Hugo darts between the legs of burly angelic slaves and wiry human livestock. It's odd, seeing him as a child – so scrawny and awkwardly proportioned, with big ears and wide, coppery eyes, not to mention the broadest smile I've ever seen on a boy his age. Despite his overall healthy appearance, the dark blotches beneath his eyes hint that he'd been sick just recently. Hugo carries an oversized backpack with him, the very hints of Bryon's cloak flapping at the edges.
At first, Bryon is utterly unaware of Hugo, even as the boy dashes towards him, grinning and waving and calling his name. The moment that Bryon does see little Hugo, he has the exact same reaction as Audiat. Glancing once towards an avenging shadow quickly darting over the derelict field, Bryon snarls and thrusts himself forward, jerking against the fetters of the sleds. He falls to the ground, cupping his own body over Hugo's and protecting every inch of the boy with his flesh.
It almost looks wrong, the large, powerful man bent defensively over the child – something so mighty, so strong and capable, making himself vulnerable to guard something so weak and soft.
The angel that'd strapped him up in the first place viciously whips at Bryon's bandaged back, as if maybe the pain he inflicts will make my uncle release Hugo. But he doesn't – if anything, the lacerations slicing into his flesh only make Bryon hug the boy tighter against him, bundling Hugo protectively to his chest.
"STOP!" he roars furiously. "STOP! HE'S JUST A BOY! IT'S ONE MISTAKE! PUNISH ME! LET HIM GO!"
The angel pauses, his feet touching the ground. And, with the light shining on his face and his majestic wings folding on his back, I recognize the angel as Baelan.
Baring his teeth, Baelan holds the whip up again. "Give me one good reason, fleabag. I'll whip the life outta your boy there if you don't give me a reason not to."
"He's sick," Bryon explains, lifting his face to focus the power of his scalding glare on Baelan. "For God's sake, the boy's sick! Let him go. Find someone else to punish."
Hugo's coppery eyes are visible from the shadow Bryon casts over him as they dart about in fright, and his arms are linked around Bryon's neck. His eyes widen as the streams of scarlet spill over Bryon's back, smacking against the dusty sand. "I'm sorry," I hear him murmur, voice heavy with the hints of oncoming tears. "I just wanted to give you your cloak."
Bryon massages Hugo's back in consolation with a single hand, silently warning him to keep quiet.
"Fine." Baelan raises his wings again, bracing his feet as if preparing to lift off. "But I want you jogging, you hear? No more dragging your feet! We've lost enough time because of your fucking kid…"
Red dust swirls around him as Baelan soars high into the sky, returning to his post beneath the balcony, hidden from the sweltering heat.
"I'm so sorry," Hugo moans miserably, pawing at his teary eyes. "I didn't know – I just wanted to – I thought you needed –"
"It's okay," Bryon soothes, wiping away the child's tears and calming his nerves with one of those gentle smiles I know warm you from head to toe. "You couldn't have known. Thank you for bringing my cloak, Hugo. I was starting to miss it." He pulls it free from the bag, admiring the fabric before throwing it over his shoulders. "Can you clasp it for me, Hugo? You know how much I suck at it…"
Sniffling, Hugo reaches up and does the tie, seemingly finding comfort in the simple action.
I don't hear any more of their conversation. Instead, I listen into Audiat's and Raffe's.
"Who is that boy and why did Simon get whipped for him?" murmurs Raffe, as if he's still confused. Of course, he probably is confused – if I were to guess, I'd say that Audiat has been frozen in place as she watches the horrible events unfold from a distance, unable to assist either one of them, and is only now loosening up. She'd have been nearly impossible to worm an answer out of.
"That's…" Audiat shakes her head to clear it. "That's his boy. The one he missed work for yesterday. Don't you know?"
Raffe starts in surprise. The sunlight dances over his sweaty forehead, sparkling with gold, as he turns to face Audiat. "Simon has a family? He's got a wife? Kids?"
"Well… yes, and no, too." Audiat shrugs, recovering herself. "He doesn't have a wife, nor does he have children from his bloodline. Hugo is an orphan, but, honestly, I'd say that Simon's his father as much as anyone else."
No comprehension alights in Raffe's eyes.
"I mean, it's just the two of them and their pup against the world. Hugo adores him like a father, and he adores Hugo like a son. Also, Simon risked your anger to care for him yesterday after he got one of those nasty stomach bugs."
Raffe furrows his brow, his expression one of confusion – it awes me how, even when bewildered, he can maintain a regal beauty in his aura. "I thought he stayed home yesterday because he got in a street fight. How did he get those bruises, then?"
Audiat's eyes blow wide, like two red pools on her pale face. The sunlight casts golden shafts through her crimson pupils. Her mouth drops open in a candid combination of surprise and horror.
"He didn't ever tell me that you don't remember," Audiat whispers, voice softer than a breeze through an orchard of willow trees.
"Remember what? What do I not remember?"
"You don't remember two nights ago after you got so drunk you could barely walk, correct?" Audiat verifies, clutching a bracelet anxiously, her stark white eyelashes stroking her cheeks in comfort.
"No." Raffe lifts an eyebrow, staring at Audiat in puzzlement. "Simon always makes sure I don't hurt anyone. It's why I've kept him around for so long."
"Kept you from hurting anyone, did he?" Audiat murmurs beneath her breath. "My ass. Everyone but himself, maybe." Then, clearing her throat, she continues, saying, "All those times that Simon showed up in the morning with unexplained bruises or sores or open cuts?" Audiat shakes her head. "Nine times out of ten, Raphael, those were because of you."
"What?" Raffe's tongue sharpens. "I did nothing of the sort!"
"I've seen it in action, so don't you try to deny it. Every night you get a little more than tipsy – scratch that, every night, period, he deals with your turbulent mood swings and barbaric strength. Instead of allowing you out of that suite of yours to wreak havoc on everyone, he locks you in and becomes your glorified punching bag. He consoles you and tolerates you and tucks you in bed every night and then goes to make you breakfast for the next morning before creeping home to a hungry mouth to feed. You're telling me that you don't know about this?"
"No." Raffe scrunches his brow. "No, that can't be right. I think I would remember giving him those –"
"You wouldn't," cuts off Audiat irately. "Great Lord in Heaven, how does he deal with you? How does that good a man get stuck with a bitter old drunk like you?"
"Watch your tongue!" Raffe snaps, eyes blazing.
"Oh, what will you do?" Audiat huffs, turning on heel, her little hands curled into tight fists. "Tear it out?"
"I might!" Raffe calls after her, but despite the anger steeling his tone and the indignant rage in his eyes, there is a crippled pride hidden in his aura. As soon as Audiat disappears back inside the building, he twists back to study the slaves, eyes tormented with unanswerable questions I can't begin to understand. The whiteness comes, dragging me away from that tortured gaze and back into the long hall of stained glass.
Do you see? Perhaps not yet…
But before I can be fully dragged back from the vision and hurled into another reality, another presence interrupts the great black beast. Before it can recoil enough to retaliate, the softer being wraps me in its blanketing arms and pulls me away from his cruel world.
Instead of witnessing horrible scenes of slavery and abuse, I am merely wrapped in a spectral white and gold glow, with no end or ridge, pillowing my every muscle. The only difference in color is a rosy pink and crimson apparitional female silhouette, far in the distance, and the two black eyes pitting her face.
Stop that. A single scarlet wing rises, and, on its downward swipe, the last of the black beast's influence falls, like a chain clattering to the ground. She does not need your torture augmenting her terror. There are more pressing matters to discuss.
I blink, trying to focus on her shape in the midst of the white glow, trying to place the gentle flowing cadence of her speech. But no answers arrive and, quickly, I'm shown another scene, this of a great white monster throwing up clouds of dirt.
Hooves shaped like blades kick at the dust in the air as the creature rears. Releasing a grating whinny that sounds like thousands of blades scratching against one another, the monster's feet fall back to the ground with a rumbling crash.
Over its neck and rump fountains of gooey liquid much resembling phlegm ooze, like a sickly mane and tail. A shackle around one of its slender forelegs is the only thing that binds it to one place, a massive black chain held at taut attention. The most terrifying part is that the creature towers high above the mountain it's tethered too by at least a hundred feet.
In the back of my mind, the female's lilting voice continues to whisper. A dear friend of mine has brought with him troubling news. The Horses have been summoned, and their bonds shall not hold them back forever. In fact…
She trails off, allowing me to focus on the events unfolding. A sparse collection of wary angels approach the raging monster, one of them chanting in a language I can't comprehend. Whatever he's saying, it catches the monster's attention – it braces its four legs, standing before the group, its quivering nostrils lined with crusty mucus.
They lift something at the end of the incantation, something that looks vaguely familiar. My heart leaps in my chest, recognizing one of Raffe's mangled leathery wings, crooked and unkempt and stiff with separation. And, as I focus on the wings themselves, I also notice the hands holding them, and the face that'd chanted to the monster.
Uriel.
There was a turncoat. Fear trembles in the woman's voice. The Seraphim were not to be trusted. He knows that Raphael is back. And he knows that Wrath of God wants his head on a stick. Uriel has gone to the extreme, pulling the Four from the depths of Hell. Three remain tethered. The Horse of Victory, Conquest, and Pestilence does not.
The monster's snot-caked nostrils puff and breathe in deeply. Uriel's goons wobble in flight to deal with the sudden change in winds. Craning its head forward, the creature almost touches its nose to the bedraggled wing. It pulls back with a boisterous snort, shaking its neck the way a horse may flick its mane. It shrieks again, baring needlelike teeth in anticipation, kicking out at its chain.
Uriel raises a hand. Something on the ground near the base of the chain moves, like a hidden henchman ready for deployment. The chain snaps moments later.
The woman's fearful whisper is barely audible above the monster's triumphant screams. It's coming, Penryn. It's coming for Raphael.
I want to yell, want to ask her what to do, but I am mute, forced to watch without comment.
As if by magic, she seems to know what I want to hear.
Warn Bryon. He has battled one before, and although he wasn't successful – a quick image of a massive sickly yellow monster with black liquid pouring over its haunches flashes, and, beneath its hooves, a sprawling dragon – he knows better than any how to deal with it. It won't catch up to you for a while yet – it's escaping the Swiss Alps as we speak, but it won't take long for it to reach you, and when it draws near… Watch your back. Always be on the move. Be wary. It isn't like this thing can stealth around all too well.
Who are you? The words gum up on my tongue, never leaving, never echoing around the shared space between minds as I hear hers doing, but the message gets across without flawlessly.
Your aunt, silly girl. Now. Wake up. They already know, and it is on its way.
"Up, up!" Hugo chants, shaking my shoulder vigorously. "Lovebirds! We need you!"
I bolt upwards, the memory of my dream fresh in my mind. My hands, planted on Raffe's chest, fist around his shirt, tightening with the stress of Audiat's message. Startled by our abrupt awakening and by my terrified grip on his shirt, Raffe blinks up at me in confusion, the brilliant blue color hazed with the remnants of his slumber.
"We need to move!" Hugo skips over to the few snoozing people left on the ground, kicking dirt at them. "Jesus, Mama Young, time to get up! Don't hiss at me – I can out-crazy you! Is that a challenge? Is it? Didn't think so! Ogden, you too? Come on! It is time to get up! Time to seize the day!"
"Bryon," I gasp, launching myself off of Raffe, elbowing him in the gut while doing so. I attempt to dash to my uncle's side, but my left knee gives out halfway across the clearing, buckling and refusing to hold my weight. The ground is cold and slightly damp beneath my knees, and I scrape my hands on a rock that I'd fallen on.
"Penryn." Bryon gently pulls me to my feet, his calloused hands holding me up without quaver. "Be careful. It hasn't all left your system yet. What's so important?"
"Audiat," I murmur, lifting my gaze to Bryon's, drawing comfort from the bronze disks in a sea of black velvet. "Audiat… she said something about…"
"Audiat?" Bryon's brow furrows, and an alien urgency – an exigent curiosity – hardens his face. "What do you mean, Penryn?"
"Audiat?" Raffe questions in confusion from behind me. "What about her?"
"I mean – she was in – she told me about – about a horse –"
One of Bryon's broad hands clasp around my upper arm, holding it firmly. There is a sense of both concern and necessity as he gazes intensely at me, studying my face. He cocks his head.
"In your dream?" he questions quietly, narrowing his eyes. "You saw Audiat… in your dream?"
"Dude, we can discuss this later." Hugo shuffles through his stuff, tossing gear into a duffel bag. "Uriel has sent the Horse of Conquest and Pestilence after you, Pigeon-Bat. Nasty creature. We got rid of all four of the Horsemen last Apocalypse, so their loyal equestrian monsters aren't the most pleased with us. Plus, those bad boys are impossible to kill. If you actually do kill it, it just reforms elsewhere. Thus proving the point that we need to get a game plan now, Bryon."
"It's across the Atlantic Ocean," Bryon dismisses, raising his eyebrows at Hugo's whims. "Those things move fast – over land. Even real horses can't swim all that well. Right now, I need to address this."
Hugo rises from the mouth of his duffel bag, looking utterly bewildered. "What the hell can be more important than a Horse of the Apocalypse on Pigeon-Bat's ass?"
"What?" asks Raffe, sitting up, looking alarmed.
"Penryn, in this… dream, was there anyone else?" Bryon's bronze eyes seem more reflective than usual tonight, glinting mysteriously in the light of the moon. "More accurately, was there a thing in this dream? Another presence? One with a voice like… like the sun itself was speaking?"
"Uh, yes," I stammer, blinking in rapid surprise.
"Were you having… not ruminations, not memories, but visions of things past, most likely things you haven't seen before, things that give you hints on how to continue?"
"Yeah, actually."
"Were there any stained glass windows?"
"How do you know all this?"
Bryon releases me, the only dwelling hand the one closed tightly around my upper arm, leaving me to support most of my weight. Tipping back his head, Bryon looks up at the moon, allowing its ivory glow to bathe his face. Eyes burning bronze, he turns back to me, calm and meditated, as if a brief glance to the night's blind eye had put a balm on whatever had been bugging him.
"Hugo, figure out all the statistics of this Horse," he orders, voice soft, yet the most commanding I've heard him since Sercem Domu. "Contact Ariel, arrange something. If we hide out at the she-aerie, we should be relatively safe – get her to summon a squadron of male angels on some nonsense reason, that way, if the Horse does attack, we'll have witnesses. We need to meet with her in complete secret, and Raphael – no one should know he's even there, none of the she-angels, none of the he-angels, no one. If this little screw-up with the Seraphim has shown us anything, it's that we can't go around trusting everybody."
"Yes, sir." Hugo scrambles through the duffel bag, searching for his computer.
"Penryn, we need to take a walk, you and I." Bryon smiles, mystery pulling at the corners of his lips. "We have much to discuss. Family secrets."
He winks, and beckons me towards the woods.
Click, click, click.
That's the sound of the gears working, moving this story along.
Okay, so, I know I advised this person to you once before, but, looking back, I've realized that errors due to spam filters lead to me not being able to get this URL across. I'd just like to give another little shout out to ChillyPeepPenguins – she's done a few fanart pieces for this fanfiction on the blog chillypeep-dot-tumblr-dot-com. I highly advise checking them out.
POLL: Bryon once mentions that angels don't remember humans – in fact, he calls it the golden rule. He says that their eyes skate right over most humans. So my question is this – would Raffe notice that his manservant – the one that practically tucks him in at night – is identical to his archnemesis he always chases around the planet? He obviously didn't recognize Bryon when they first met as Simon or his enemy. And what does that mean about Penryn?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh