Chapter Forty Eight
Audiat unzips her leather jacket as she enters the room, already hearing the resounding heartbeat of another echoing near the kitchen. Like thunder, it seems to shake the apartment; for seconds, she ponders whether the tremendous, booming beat is louder than it should be, but it quiets, like a mouse in the presence of a hawk.
"Hello!" she calls cheerfully, fearing not who her words may reach, knowing quite well the creature lurking about in the dark recesses of her room. Slinging the jacket over a chair, Audiat bustles into the living room, grinning beatifically at the Nephilim draped in shadows.
"I officially invited the angels Ariel and I decided would be best fit to hear Raphael's speech today!" she chirps, trotting into the kitchen only to wipe a smudge of pudding that's stained the Nephilim's chin away, not noticing his stormy scowl or the troubled look fazing the usual impassive gleam in his chocolate brown eyes. "We invited those that we thought'd have enough respect to verify what they see but still would remain obedient to the hands-off rule. Josiah, of course. Also, a few of Raphael's best friends – at least, Ariel says they're his best friends. Shame about Yaoel, he would've made the list for sure. We had to invite Titaniel – I really didn't want to, he's a brute, and I think he's going to become my boss. Besides, what kind of a name is Titaniel, anyway? Does he have a nickname? His buds must have fun with that one…" Audiat twirls around on one heel, facing Emilio inquisitively. "You haven't even spoken up once. What's up?"
Once chatty and just as jubilant as her to cross the swords of eloquence and hidden insults, the Nephilim now sits in utter silence, his wings limp and his hands trailing weakly by his side.
"What's wrong?" whispers Audiat, her eyes going round. "What's happened? Is it Bryon?"
As if remembering that he indeed is one that must never be seen as anything other than invincible, his throat clears, and his shoulders roll back into their powerful position. "Listen to me. The King has given very specific orders. It is my job and my job alone to protect you – he trusts no one else. See another Nephilim, and you notify me. I am also not permitted to leave your side, and for that, I apologize – shadows can be irritating."
Audiat's limbs freeze up, the dark trickling of dread first beginning to flicker on the outer edges of her imagination. "What's happened, Emilio? Why are we wary of other Nephilim?"
With shards of ice in his gaze, Daine explodes through the pair of doors guarding the entrance to Secrem Domu. All the Nephilim lounging lazily about the courtyard stiffen, their salutes allowing them to hide the beer bottles behind their backs. Aside from Miguel, who drunkenly rolls around like a sick dog, they begin to blush and form the opening sentence to their apologies – Daine had been locked up within the stone walls so long that they had forgotten his urges for them to give up the tempting alcohol.
The morning sun glints off of Daine's light armor, adding a wicked gleam to his eyes. like a rogue king in a valiant video game. But perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that Daine seems deeply perturbed by something – calm, levelheaded, and open-minded, he'd never seemed to have any issues accepting any news.
"Attention." It's not an order, nor is it a request – in fact, it closely resembles the opening of a speech. "This group shall not be heading out to Africa to help secure the lands. In fact, no group shall. Make sure to spread that about with your rumors – and please do it truthfully."
A surprised murmur echoes around the courtyard. With confusion in their eyes, Nephilim turn and look about, wondering what could possibly have happened. Worry begins to worm into their guts – although most look confused but obedient, a few seem strung-up and nervous, fidgeting wildly.
Daine begins to turn back to retreat back inside of the castle, but pauses, halfway pivoted towards the door. His fist clenches, and then begins to shake. Perhaps it isn't purposeful, the way he angles his head, so that none can read his expression.
"If you know why we're staying here," he calls, "God help your soul. Bryon's started a witchhunt."
And, without another word, Daine strides back into the castle, allowing the soldiers the slightest glimpse of his son gawking stupidly in the hallway before they swing shut again.
Bryon enters Audiat's room with a long inhale, and, for half a second, I think for a moment I see my uncle again. Almost as if he's struggling to escape the iron shackles Ogden's betrayal had fastened around his wrists, he hesitates, something remarkably akin to agony flickering over his face. His eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes sealing over his bloodshot bronze eyes like bars over a prison window, and his mouth opens halfway, as if to coat his tongue in the sweet, sweet scent. Swallowing down his soft emotions with another breath, Bryon's face returns to its impassive façade, not to be touched or bothered by silly things like this bucolic reminder of home.
With a deadly gleam in his eyes so unlike the benevolent man I'd grown accustomed to, he strides to the center of the room and paces restlessly back and forth, throwing his staff down on the couch where Raffe had slept in order to free his hands. The tapping of his shoes against the floor is like the brisk, pattering heartbeat of a trapped mouse.
"Hugo," he murmurs at last, speaking to the boy perched high up in Audiat's hammock. "Hugo, how many of our allies are not Nephilim?"
Sighing jadedly, Hugo rolls around, spilling a few stuffed animals to the floor where they fall on the bemused Scruffy. "Definitely not the Seraphim. We've got about two hundred of my people. The she-angels. That's our numbers right now."
Bryon runs both of his hands through his hair, and resumes pacing.
"How could Ogden…?" I whisper, staring out the balcony window.
"I should've seen it coming." Bitterly, Hugo turns back over in his hammock, mumbling darkly all the way. "I should've, I should've, I should've…"
"Ogden was too smart for us." Sighing tersely, Bryon halts abruptly in his pacing, studying the rug vehemently. "He never spoke, so disguising his voice was never an issue. Those without a voice are disregarded in society. So long as he played his part, he had us at our leashes. Do not blame yourself."
Raffe sighs, drawing my attention back to the statuesque archangel. Poised and perfect, he leans against the frame of a stained glass window, throwing a ruby red apple up, allowing the light of morning to bathe its surface in color and vibrancy. In his eyes swirl a toil of color and confusion.
"I suppose I'll have to get back to killing Nephilim." Again, he sighs, this time more heavily. "That's not good for public appeal. Goddamn Nephilim politics…"
Bryon's spine stiffens at the insult, causing his head to violently buck backwards, but, as he stares sideways at Raffe, one bronze eyeball only visible, he seems to calm himself.
"I'm sure you'll find a way to manage," he says brusquely, forcing himself to return to his pacing.
"I don't understand, either." Ariel cocks her head, tipping her head backwards, as if to think staring up at Audiat's starry ceiling. "Why? And, Bryon…" In accordance with her, the cherubs at her feet swivel their heads to my uncle. "What did he mean, when he said that you sinned? Is there something I don't know about? Tell me now."
"You'd prefer it if I didn't," Bryon chuckles darkly, sounding as if he could erase his memories, he would in a heartbeat. "But it doesn't affect me or my leadership, nor my support of the she-aerie. Therefore, you have no reason to take interest in it. More compelling questions are the likes of this: how many are supporting him? Do we really control Africa, or does he? How many among us are rats?"
Ariel's eyes slide sideways leoninely. "I went through the same thing with Laylah and her most recent betrayal. Who do you trust enough to place your life in their hands?"
Growling with a short burst of his pent-up aggression, Bryon hurls himself at one of Audiat's drawing desks, causing the entire structure to rattle. He breathes heavily, like a savage man, hunched over and gripping the edges of the desk until his knuckles turn white. "Arabella. Femi. My brother. They're all fucking dead, Ariel."
With short, measured breaths, I stare at him as he quivers terrifyingly, my mouth opening slightly in a silent exclamation of alarm. Racking my memory, the worse word I've ever heard my uncle use was "bastards" when discussing the "angelic bastards" with friends. Never before have I heard him use anything more intense, neither have I heard the deep, gravelly snarl he speaks with now. Though Hugo doesn't stir, even Raffe seems startled, dropping the apple and adjusting Pooky Bear by his side.
"Well, yes, boo-hoo for you." Ariel's eyes narrow in a manner some may call cruel. "However, you don't know just three people. There'll be time for moping and mopping up tears later. Now, tell me who you trust, or I'll find out myself."
Bryon seems to still, as if Ariel's utter indifference to his agony had reminded him of something to keep him level-headed. Rolling his shoulders back, he turns to her, jaw set in a firm line.
"Daine."
"Oh, Mako," Daine whispers into his boy's hair, gently stroking his back. So tightly he hugs the child that his son would've never had the chance to tell that his father was weeping had not a great tear fallen upon his shoulder with a plop sounding louder than a shriek. The chill of the salty liquid as it seeps through the fabric of his T-shirt and slinks down his back sends a shiver up Mako's spine.
"Dad?" he whispers worriedly, not understanding what could be happening – for how could a boy comprehend the meaning of war, or the sacred horror of betrayal? Daine bites his lip to stem the tears welling beneath his eyes.
War, Daine realizes, is ugly – and with everything ugly, there must be at least one thing beautiful. Enough people will shunt his sons into becoming warriors, into squashing their emotions and making them into anything but they are. Their father shall not be the first to toughen them up – Daine decides he'll be the one to keep them soft.
"Listen to me," Daine urges, shoving back his child, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes or quell the mad urgency in his voice. His hands grip at Mako's shoulders, causing the boy to quiver. "Listen to me. Bad things are going to happen, Mako. Mommy or I might not walk through that door again. But whatever happens, you promise me that you'll never, ever forget who you are." Daine's smile trembles, and his voice lowers to an exigent hiss. "Don't you ever grow up. Don't you ever stop building things with Legos or pretending that your fries are lightsabers or that the hedge at the corner of the plaza is an alien base, you hear me? Never, ever lose sight of who you are. It will be the end of you."
On the verge of tears himself, seeing his invulnerable father quaking like a dead leaf caught in a gale, Mako nods stiffly. Terrified, he stammers, "Y-yes Daddy! Okay! Yes, sir!"
"Good!" Daine cries, releasing his boy and shooting to his feet. Rubbing away a tear, he smiles down at Mako, lips still shaking slightly.
But Mako doesn't smile back.
Eyes round with terror, Mako stumbles away, retreating down the hall as quick as his legs can carry him. A single tear traces down his fat cheek. With a small shriek of terror, Mako flees, streaking down the hallway without a glance back.
"Anyone else?" Ariel harrumphs disapprovingly. "You don't make many friends."
Bryon shrugs. "Emilio."
"Emilio?" Audiat repeats, stepping closer to the distraught man. The innocent fear in her eyes reminds him of his own sister, bringing back a terrible roll of emotions lodging in his throat, bringing a fresh wave of liquid to pool in the corners of his eyes.
Thrusting back his head to hide his face from the tiny angel, Emilio swallows in a vain attempt to berid himself of this emotion, this one tie that makes him human. Perhaps if he can swallow his humanity, he addles his mind to believe, then he'll make things better. His hands plunge into his pockets to disguise their slight tremor.
"What's going on?" The worry gleaming in her eyes surpasses the curiosity, as if she knows that something is most definitely wrong, and she doesn't in her heart want to know what – deliriously, Emilio wonders what'd tipped her off. The tremble? The lack of composure? The silence?
The silence.
Most definitely his complete and utter silence.
But, as a sensation of hopelessness wells up in his chest with the fury of an inferno, Emilio realizes that he won't be silent for long.
"Emilio?" Her red eyes shine in the darkness.
"I don't know!" he wails, dam breaking suddenly, knees buckling. "I DON'T KNOW! I don't! All I know is that… that… I can't trust anyone! That Bryon's afraid! So I DON'T KNOW!"
"He makes lots of friends," wheezes Hugo from high up in his hammock, "but he doesn't trust many of them. Because trusting someone means giving his heart to them, don't it, Bryon? And in the end, everyone just dies. All around you."
"Thank you for pointing that out. No more vodka for you." Despite his passive-aggressive words, Bryon's words aren't laced with the painstakingly conducted undertones of madness. I don't believe Bryon will ever be angry at Hugo, and the fact that this conclusion remains intact and immaculate gives me some comfort after this little version of Hell seemingly made just for us – even the most down-to-earth can snap, even the most composed have a dam that cracks and floods, and Bryon is no different. He's gone through dark stages before – I've seen evidence of that. Who says that this is anything more than a slight mood swing?
Surely my Bryon will be back before long.
"So, Emilio and Daine." Ariel cocks her head to one side, her pets copying the movement like puppets. "Get them to assemble a small number of their most trusted and you'll have your private armada. Emilio, I understand, is the one protecting Audiat, and Daine the one protecting her castle?"
"You understand perfectly." Bryon sighs coolly, shutting his eyes. "Ariel, you need to refresh your cherub guard, and see if there's any missing. There shouldn't have been an attack last night, but the sooner we know about it, the better."
"Very well." Her lips pulling into an expression of her displeasure at the abrupt dismissal, Ariel rises elegantly, brass gown sweeping around her feet as she stalks towards the balcony. Scruffy licks affectionately at the folds of her dress as she passes but swiftly retracts, coughing, and licking the air. With each roll of his pink tongue, the golden glitter he'd picked up from the dress sparkles.
"You idiot," Hugo chuckles, shaking his head into the hammock.
As Ariel departs in a black and gold swirl, Bryon reanimates, pacing back and forth across the floor, his expression unchanged from its previous mask of intensity. Wrapped deeply in the recesses of his thought, he remains, pacing to and fro with a madman's tenacity. The longer the dullness shines in his eyes and the further the shadows stretch, the greater my overwhelming aura of depression becomes and the more grateful I become for Bay taking Paige out on another adventure. To see Bryon like this, without purpose or certainty, would break her.
Abruptly, after almost a complete hour of silent thought, without so much as a break for the slightest conversation, as if we'd been set on pause, Bryon straightens.
"That's quite enough of that, I believe," he sighs, pivoting towards me. "I'm sorry, Penryn, that you had to see me this way. It must be difficult. I'm only human, if you will." A tearful, benevolent smile pulls at his lips. "I will always, always be here for you, no matter what state I'm in."
"'S okay." I smile almost as halfheartedly as he does. "Came as a shock to all of us. I'll let you know if there's a problem that needs fixing."
"You'd better." He lifts his head to glare at Raffe. "And you'd better keep a careful eye on her. Considering my newly set schedule, I'm not going to have time to fish the monster from its recesses and banish it, so you'd better stick close together, understood?"
"No." With a tingle of fear along my spine, I shoot upwards, eyes rounder than quarters. "Bryon, you can't just – leave us! She-angels are going to die if you don't fix this!"
Bryon's smile is brittle. "I wish I could help, Penryn, I really do, but I have a kingdom to run. Despite what Ogden may believe, I do think about what's best for it. And I'm not sure the monster will strike again – I believe that it's unsure, that it's still trying to deny what it is inside. I believe it was an accident that Bezaliel died. I believe that it'll try to keep from killing again – that could explain the lack of deaths last night."
"What?" I screw up my brow, swinging my legs over the edge of the couch. "Bryon, you told me that –"
"A monster still has emotions, still has regrets, still has a personality, just like everyone else," Bryon lectures, glancing at me, the halcyon yellow of midmorning glowing in his eyes. "You can't forget that, Penryn."
Slowly, I shake my head in disbelief, uncertain of the man before me. "That doesn't change the fact that it's a monster."
With a sigh as soft and sibilant as roiling sea spray, Bryon turns his back on me, his cloak snapping angrily behind him; though if it's angry at him or me, I can't tell. Grabbing his staff from the couch, he strides slowly towards the exit, taking his time, seemingly drinking in his surroundings. I watch him, open-mouthed, still not able to register that he'd simply left me here.
"I'm going to grab a pair of swords from the armory, check up on the human settlement and make sure they know that a giant lizard will be stumbling around the mountains, then head out to face the Horse. Before we clash again, though, I'll have more information on Ogden and his armies. Expect me to be in touch."
"Good luck, Good King Richard," Hugo grunts as Bryon passes beneath him.
A tickle of warmth brushes back into the bronze of his eyes as Bryon tips his head upwards to stare at the child curled up in the mass of stuffed animals.
"Thank you so, so much for choosing me over him," Bryon whispers, closing his eyes and smiling – a real smile, not a fake, flimsy one, but the sort of smile that has audiences coming to tears in movie theaters. "Please, please don't leave me, Hugo. Please."
"It wasn't that much of a choice." Hugo peeps through the holes in the netting of the hammock down at Bryon, his copper eyes shining amorously. "I don't need no welder. You're my big, bumbling oaf, you hear? And I'm your scrawny little idiot. Understand that under normal circumstances, that'd be accompanied with a squeezing hug, but there's no guarantee that I'll get back up if I get down."
Bryon's familiar laugh thunders through the air, its buttery bellows causing me to rise from the couch. A prickle of shame heats my cheeks at my sudden need for the hug Hugo'd mentioned, but it's quite simple to drown out such thoughts as I bury my head into Bryon's chest.
With an oof of surprise, Bryon stumbles backwards, recoiling only momentarily before his arms wrap around me. His warmth is nearly heavenly after so long of sitting on the couch and allowing my muscles to cramp up. Squeezing my eyes shut, I allow myself merely to focus on that warmth – screw the fact that he's an ancient dragon, screw the fact that he's emotionally unstable, screw the fact that he's got places to be. I need a hug, and I sure as hell am getting one.
It isn't until a big, fat tear lands on my shoulder that I realize it could be more than a hug for Bryon.
"I'm sorry," he whispers softly, squeezing my tight. "I'll do better. I will."
"And you say that this deal shall not interfere with my leadership?" Carefully, Ariel stirs her tea, too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice its splendid flavor as she again sips from the rim of the cup.
"It shouldn't." Smiling out of the corner of his mouth, Lucius takes another long, luxurious sip of his tea, his throat bobbing revoltingly with each gulp. When he sets the dainty teacup back down on its platter, a stain of black saliva streaks over the lip of the white porcelain. "You make a pretty prize, but you'd put up quite a fight – that marks you as undesirable for anything other than a prize. Honestly, I doubt I'd find much use in you at all, other than the occasional trophy for me to place upon a pedestal when my friends come marching through. But that decision is up to you, darling."
"Don't call me that," Ariel snaps, her stomach pitching with unease.
Lucius fancifully holds the teacup up to the light, inspecting it critically, his lips pulled into a disapproving frown, as if lusting for something stronger than his tea. "Why not, sweetheart? Heard it at the lips of a he-angel before? If you haven't, I bet a lot of your girls can't say the same."
The heavy clink of Ariel's teacup against its saucer silences him. Squeezing her eyes shut as if she's somehow safe behind the barrier of her eyelids, Ariel levels her breath. "I have decided my terms, bastard," she hisses, baring her teeth, slowly peeling her eyes open. "There's no need for you to torment me further."
"Oh, honey." A cloud passes over the sun, bathing Lucius's figures in darkness and casting his face in darker tones, his black tongue dashing along his lower lip and leaving a grey streak. "From now on, I decide when the torment begins and ends."
Glaring venomously at the demon, Ariel sighs, then begins to say: "Lucius, I'll make a deal with you. My conditions are these: you must protect all she-angels from a he-angel's rape, and punish those males that attempt to dirty themselves in such cruel acts severely. This, I believe, you will have no difficulty with."
"I accept those terms. I accept this deal and all of your terms." Cocking his head to one side, Lucius smiles sleazily, recoating his lips in another layer of grey slime. "You know very well what my terms are, so I might as well not repeat them. Do you accept my terms, dear wife of mine?"
Ariel fiddles with her fingers, looking down into her lap. "I suppose…" Ariel sighs softly. "There truly is no other way, is there? Very well. I accept your terms."
"Then it is written in stone." Lucius raises one eyebrow, accompanying it with a toothy grin. Lifting one hand, his fingers slide together, preparing for a simple gesture Ariel fears – and the demon seems to realize this as he slowly curls his hand into position, preparing to snap his fingers.
"I should tell you." The crisp, clean snap rings out through the air. "I lied, wifey poo. You are a very, very large fish to catch, and I won't let your meat go undevoured."
Maion peels apart the layers of silky cloth protecting the swords so long hidden from the light of day. Holding the metal against her like a mother may a child, she slowly drifts back to the waiting receiver, showing the glossy metal and leather hilts to the one impatiently awaiting in the pillar of light outside the armory. Smiling friendlily yet only receiving a brittle twitch of lips in return, she approaches Bryon and shoves the swords into his arms.
"I think you'd remember these?" She glances questioningly up at the usually quite cheerful man. "They were your mother's wedding gift to Audiat."
"Of course I remember these." Bryon chuckles, a hint of his past shining in his eyes like a ghost. "Audiat wanted so hard to master them, but she doesn't have the balance – she always ended up falling over trying any of the maneuvers Thea tried to teach her. I suppose she gave up?"
"Quite glumly," Maion says, enthused by the glimpse of the Bryon she'd grown accustomed too. "And only after she hit Ariel in the head. We were all so glad when she went back to knives and daggers, we almost threw a party."
"Well, you never know." A true grin spreads over Bryon's face. "She might've invented her own battle form if she'd had them long enough."
Maion snorts. "A battle form to take out your allies, maybe. Anyone standing nearby would have to duck."
"She would make a killer double agent," he amends, eyes twinkling. "These will do nicely; thank you, Maion. I hate to pester you further, but do you, by chance, have any male armor my size?" He gestures shamefully to his gargantuan height.
"No…" Maion bites at her lip. "No, I don't think I do. We have Josiah's armor, but he's a little shrimp of an angel, and he wouldn't like me pawning it off, anyway. I do have another keepsake from Audiat, though – for you. I was going to give it to you immediately, but you looked like you were in a stormy mood."
Bryon sighs, his weary expression returning. "There's a lot going on at the moment, Maion. Why? What did Audiat put aside for me?"
Quickly bustling inside only to bustle back out, Maion hands the small, poorly wrapped package to Bryon. "She wanted to be the one to give it to you herself, but, you know, she's absent at the moment, so… here you are. I do hope you'll enjoy it."
Curiously, Bryon pulls open the top of the package, peering inside. His face splits into a huge grin. "Strange, this box feels heavier than that."
Without another word, he pulls out the poorly sewed patchwork slouchy hat from the box. It's almost like one of those bean-hats Audiat had in vain attempted to introduce to the aerie, except it's long and skinny, shaped like a crow's bill – it looks more like it would belong to an elf than a Nephilim. However, the King seems delighted – he bounces a bell sewn onto the pointed tip of the hat, chuckling at its cheerful tinkle.
Maion smiles as he slips it on, bell tingling all the while. He grins at nothing in particular in silence for a few seconds, evidently contemplating something soothing, before reaching around to his back pocket and emerging with a slouchy hat of his own.
"Here." Handing the strange bean-hat, one with a plush flower sprouting from its forehead, to Maion, he smiles warmly. "I hope she'll like it; I haven't had the time to go shopping or create anything quite as wonderful as this." He shakes his hat back and forth, grinning at the tinkle of the bell.
"I'll put it in the same box –" Maion freezes with her hands over the present package, remaining frozen, uncertain what exactly she glimpses hidden beneath the folds of tissue paper. Initially, she thinks it to be a note, and thinks not that much of it. But when the glossy words turn out to not be written metallic sharpie but silver ink, true, metal, silver, an icy tickle of dread races down her spine. The neat, swooping cursive is as good as any signature in naming the gifter of the unexpected present.
"Bryon." She shoves the box towards him. "What does that mean?"
As he reads the short, sweet message and his face turns slowly from flushed and cheery to white and horrified, Maion recites the message in her mind again, wondering why it seems to sinister to her, why something so simply phrased can put her on edge so.
Your niece is an idiot to think that I am trustworthy. I pray, for your sake, that you're willing to pay for both her unintelligence, and your own. The eleventh hour is upon us.
-Lucius
And why in the name of sanity had the note been atop a book?
Oh, I'm so excited. But I've got to keep quiet, keep the surprise…
POLL: Bryon's had one of the legs on his rocking chair removed, and he's teetering and tottering in and out of stress. With him this way, grieving and uncertain, it's unlikely he'll be a very appealing pick for most of the Nephilim – so, in the end, did Lucius's cruel way to rip the Band-Aid off aid Ogden more than the Dragon King?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh
