Chapter Twenty Three

"So," I question, sliding down onto the courtyard bench beside Bryon, "why exactly is Emilio tutoring me on proper sword techniques? No offense to your judgment or anything, but there's better stuff I could be doing today. Like, I don't know, learning about this weird world."

Bryon looks up with a warm smile, the hands that'd been tickling a squealing little Nephilim silly pausing against its soft belly scales. The joy in his eyes at our greeting, the way he seems to cajole my arrival, brings a smile to my face as well.

"Penryn!" Bryon cries, cradling the Nephilim against him despite its croons of protest. "We haven't had many chances to talk one on one for far too long! I was actually looking for you, before Belle busied me with her itchy belly." The Nephilim screes affectionately at her name, roiling in his hands.

"Is that Belle?" Curiosity gets the better of me, snuffing out any previous desires of knowledge. "Can you hold her up? What does she look like in the sun?"

Bryon clucks his tongue coaxingly at Belle, rumbling something in a foreign tongue, something that doesn't truly sound like spoken words to me – but there is also the latent knowledge that this is a language of some strange design, perhaps lost in the toils of history. Belle purrs coyly in response, her little talons stretching to the sky like a kitten's weary stretch – and, indeed, she is nearly the size of a kitten, able to fit within the bowl of a teacup.

Bryon's rumbles adopt a harsher note, as if he's scolding her, and, reluctantly, Belle quits rolling around on her back. Like a flash of copper winding up his torso and then along his arm, she flies to life, a lightning-quick snake, perhaps, or a torrent of wind insistent on circling Bryon. She comes to rest at Bryon's uplifted fist, her claws hooked between his enclosed fingers and her long, slender tail draping over his arm, swaying in the breeze. Two wings rise from her back slightly, as if she's sunning them in the light beaming down upon her, allowing each of her feathers to reflect the sun's glare.

Even in such a small size, I can see the qualities that seem to characterize the Nephilim.

She's scaled and dragonic, with the almost stereotypical head and scale structure, but there is also a special unique spice in her mix. Instead of a basic coppery color, her scales are mottled – though all have the metallic sheen of copper, the ones nearer to the top are flecked with brass scales and tipped with snowy white; towards the very top, entire scales are pale as a cloud. Her belly scales are soft and sable-colored. At her nape starts a thick calico mane made of the same elongated scales as Bryon'd had; the only difference in manes is that hers travels all the way down her spine like the spikes on a classic dragon's back. At her shoulders, they broaden out and become the coarse feathers on and around her speckled wings and, further down, the brindled hairs tipping her slender tail. Two curling horns poke through the mane, barely visible through the forest of glimmering mane-scales in copper, bronze, brass, gold, and many in pure, pure white. Her serpentine tail is longer than the size of the rest of her body, the glistening scales tapering into plush hairs that swish with every flick of her tail. Little nostrils flaring and tiny claws gripping Bryon's hand, she leans towards me, large eyes inquisitive.

I don't usually get along fondly with lizards and snakes and other scaly things – they keep their distance and I keep mine, and we get along fine. But there is something absolutely adorable about this particular dragon creature, with its paint-splattered back scales as it stares into my eyes – perhaps it is the curious whistle she lets loose, opening her maw to show a tiny red tongue hosted between toothless pink gums. It could be her small little claws as they reach for me, tiny reptilian hand snagging on the fabric of my shirt's sleeve, the way she studied with fascinated rapture all the while. Or it could be her brilliant, sparkling eyes – one blue as the sky above, the other a mixture of bronze and gold.

"Whoa," I murmur, tilting my head from one side to the other to catch the difference in colors.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Bryon chuckles. "Some people are saying she's an omen, a gift from the Clockwork Angel herself. I'm not buying it, not in the slightest."

"An omen? Why?"

"Because she was the only one to survive in her home town." Bryon glances sideways at me. "The angels attacked, the archangel leading that particular battalion out of his mind or something. It was a remote town in the middle of Africa, and there wasn't much to be gained by demolishing it. It would've been an easy destruction, honestly, if Belle's mother, whoever she'd been, hadn't been there."

Bryon takes a single finger and strokes between her horns, causing Belle to squeal with pleasure, leaning into his touch.

"The Clockwork Angel is famous for defending all Wives. As best we can figure, she showed up – her signature was even there. Remember the unplanned eclipse towards the beginning of the apocalypse? That was her doing – she only ever seems to arrive when the sun and the moon are together, Hugo could probably give you facts. But the point is she failed to protect the Wife and the only one left surviving was Belle, sitting in the exact center of all the rubble, staring in confusion at dead humans and angels alike."

"What?" My brow furrows; there seems to be fault in this theory, something minor that flunks the test, but with my limited experience in such arts, I am unable to see such things.

"They say she was a white girl," Bryon continues, "so her mother must've fled down to an all-black town to hide from any searchers. Which must mean someone was after her and her child. Brings up questions, of course, as to who is the father of Belle – we can't interrogate Belle, because she refuses to morph into her human shape, but such things are not important. Point is, everyone says that both the Clockwork Angel's appearance and Belle's appearance are a joint omen. The Clockwork Angel signified a new age of destruction and death but then new rebirth and glory at the end of everything, and, so they say, Belle signifies a coming time of peace between enemies long despised."

"Why?" I wonder in utter confusion. "Is it because even though Belle saw all that chaos, she lived through and survived and lived happy ever after or something?"

Bryon chuckles. "No, but that's a good guess. No, people are saying she's a bridge between Raphael and I – and those rumors have become increasingly popular now that he walks amongst Nephilim. They say she's a unit that'll knit us together, and that old enemies will be made friends and harmony will reign. I can see how such a theory is plausible. Look at her." Bryon lifts hand, allowing the light to sparkle off of Belle's scales. "Similar to a dragon, yes? And her wings, speckled with a three white feathers to every copper ratio – similar to Raphael's, correct? One blue eye, one bronze eye." He taps at his own peepers in explanation, nodding. "People say she's the symbol of a new era coming forth."

My brow is furrowed as I analyze the little Nephilim. She's sniffing around Bryon's fist, nosing around his fingers – her muzzle is so tiny, it could fit in a thimble. "What do you say, Bryon?"

"I don't believe in omens," Bryon admits. "I believe in my God, but I do not believe in any omens sent by the Clockwork Angel or otherwise. The burning bush is the only omen I trust in, and its registration as an 'omen' is borderline."

"Does Belle think she's an omen?" I ponder, cautiously extending my index finger towards her.

Belle sniffs at my extended offering, her delicate nostrils tickling around my nail, and then lunges rapidly, her jaws extended as if to snap off the tip of my finger. I recoil hurriedly, clutching my hand against my chest, heart pounding in abrupt terror. Belle hisses in confusion and what seems to be embarrassment, shuffling about anxiously on Bryon's hand.

"It's her greeting," Bryon explains, lifting a finger to demonstrate. Belle hisses playfully at it, head snaking around to face his hand. Her wings fan the sky in futile sweeps as she fends off his pointer finger with brief nibbles. "See? She's friendly. Won't hurt you."

Belle whips her head about to me as Bryon's finger coils back, her bright eyes still questioning me. She treats me demure approach patiently, shuffling her wings and sending shivers through her long scale-hairs. Head craning forward and neck arching with lissome grace, she sniffs at the one finger I have extended towards her.

With a squeal of delight, all of Belle's mane-scales stand on end, her mouth flying open with a joyful grin. She sinks her toothless pinkgums into the soft skin of my finger's pad for a mere second before retracting, like a snake bite lacking fangs. It doesn't even throb, where she nipped me – those tiny gums can't hurt anybody, evidently.

"That wasn't so bad." I smile at Belle. "She's nothing but a sweetheart, is she?"

Bryon's lips quirk with a smile, and his other hand massages down her little body, much to the Nephilim's pleasure. "She is. I'm surprised she isn't shying from your touch – she's not especially fond of many people. In fact, the only ones she really seems to tolerate are the Wives, me, and on occasion, Emilio."

"What is the deal with Emilio, anyway?" I question, my uncle's reference to the dark-haired Hispanic reawakening thoughts sedated by his playful adoration of Belle. "Why did you sign me up for sword lessons or whatnot? I know I can't really swing a sword like a pro, but Pooky Bear takes care of that. It's not like I'm completely helpless, anyway."

Bryon's eyes flash as he sneaks a quick, swiping glance towards me. "Emilio is a true master of the blades. He'd have you fighting like an expert with any sort of blade by the end of the week, I'm sure, and not just by Pooky Bear's command. Personally, I thought you'd want to occupy your time with something productive. Was my theory incorrect?"

I tilt my head to one side, awkwardness making it difficult to swallow. "Well… I'd probably drive myself mad if I didn't have anything to do any other day but today," I confess, watching Belle fondle Bryon's hair instead of meeting his eyes.

"What makes today so different?"

"It's just…" I heave a sigh, reaching out to stroke along Belle's fragile spine. "I don't know, I've been going nonstop for a long time now, and the apocalypse is just grating on my mind and – I guess I just thought that I'd get a bit of a break in this stable, serene little town."

Bryon is silent, mulling over my words with eyes thick with emotion, emotion which only emerges from thousands of years of life, the life he has felt. His honey-sweet gaze is trained on me, the raw power buried there tingly against my skin – I can feel the tickle of its focus drifting across my face. "How long has it been since you've gotten a decent rest, Penryn?"

I shrug. "The best rest I've had since the aerie was probably with the resistance fighters. And there were some limitations there."

He seems to ponder this, staring off at the sky, eyes tracing the pattern of two lovebird Nephilim circling each other. "Evidently, I need to get to know you better." Shaking his head, he sighs, and cradles Belle in front of his face with two hands. "Belle, sweetie, can you go find Emilio and inform him that Penryn's class for today is cancelled? She needs time to rest after her adventures, and there is no better way than touring a beautiful city with her recently united family."

Belle squeaks with acceptance and races off, zigzagging through pedestrian's feet on her journey, while I gawk at my uncle.

"Wait, so you're just… bailing on Emilio?"

Bryon's eyes crinkle with his merry smile. "I know Emilio much better than I know you, it would seem. He'll be pleased to have an afternoon to himself, too. I daresay he might even hunt down some colossal elk and parade around with his killings. He's much that type. But come now." Bryon rises briskly from the bench, his cloak fluttering around his legs. With a wide, cheerful smile, he extends an open palm towards me. "There's much to see, and I imagine you have many questions."

"I suppose." My hand slides into his, and Bryon pulls me to my feet in a quick burst of muscle. "Where do you plan on taking me, can I ask, as we tour this little town?"

"Well," hums Bryon, strolling through the tiled courtyard, waving to friends and smiling strangers, "it's a small place, but there's a lot of interesting stuff that'll fascinate you, and a lot of stuff that still fascinates me. Maybe we'll amble through 'Downtown' to see all the old architecture and street-art. That's wild, what they've done with the blank walls and crumbling old buildings. No matter what order we may proceed in, you need to see the temples – there is beauty there, beauty unlike any of your human churches. And, maybe to end our little session, we can swing by our friend Rumbbaa in the stables – Scruffy stays in Hugo's room, or right by it, but most of the wolves don't have that luxury. What do you say?"

I smile at him and beckon towards the streets. "Lead the way, Bryon."

Bryon beams at his name, eyes sparkling in the sunlight like doubloons. "I hope you'll like it here. It's not like it's your home, or honestly anywhere you've been before, but it's my home, and it's all I've ever known. If you'll let me, I'll show you a whole new way of living."

I hesitate, unsure of how completely I want to devote myself to learning about the world of Nephilim – it is only the recollection that I am, in fact, one of the Nephilim that fuels me to accept Bryon's invitation, and that this reality he unveils may prove to be more secure than the one the humans have constructed from the remains of our shattered civilization.

And Bryon shows me everything he knows.

I take his arm, and he guides me through the crowds. Had I not witnessed the turmoil occurring not far from these tranquil grounds, I would've said that such exuberant people would be impossible to happen upon. The apocalypse had touched everyone but Bryon's Nephilim. And they look up to my uncle as a father – simply by walking beside him, I gain affection, and by being his niece as he claims repeatedly, swelling each time with pride, they adore me as well. I am, in no other words, their princess – strange, exotic foods with spicy or smooth flavors are offered to us as we wander the streets, and people greet us from anywhere. I meet both the star-crossed couple that'd gotten engaged two nights before and the one-legged old man hobbling down the street with many a story to tell. On our trip Downtown, we even pass Ogden – he emerged from his smoking black forge with smoldering clothes and embers riddling his thin, greasy hair, waving ecstatically with a grin spread across his entire face.

Our desultory wanders also provide Bryon plenty of chances to bare his pride of his town, as well. Repetitively, he points out buildings and houses and families and beautifully wild gardens and spits out facts. When we reach Downtown, though, these moments become twice as frequent.

"Oh, smell that, Penryn!" Bryon takes in a huge whiff through his nose, humming with ebullience. "This place is wonderful! Can't you just smell the spices in the air? The cooking shop has been here since when this town was just getting started, you know – I think the Mistress's family ran it originally, to be perfectly honest."

"The Mistress?" My interest peaks as much as it can when the subject is an old cooking ingredients shack. "Who's that?"

Bryon laughs melodically, throwing his head up, attracting the attention of two teenagers sitting on a fence together with intertwined hands. "That's the woman the angel that made this little town famous fell in love with. We don't actually know her name or the name of the angel, and they're mostly just tall tales, but there was an angel and a human that did fall in love around this area, so we're not sure how much is fable and how much is real."

I frown, glancing sideways at him. "You're saying that this wasn't always a Nephilim haven?"

"Everything has a birth, Penryn, and this town's so happened to be an angel and a human. It drew in Nephilim like moths to a lamp."

"So, then, what happened?" I inquire, parrying around a rather gluttonous fellow with eyeliner and a purple mohawk. "Angel and girl fall in love, what happens?"

"Well, that's just the thing." Bryon sighs, dragging his staff along the stone, then abruptly spinning it about in one hand with reckless enthusiasm. "It's quite a tragic tale. It goes vaguely like this: he visits all the time, going to her family's cooking shop because, apparently, he claimed they had the best food in all of heaven. But it was really because he'd fallen for his serving maid, a girl known simply as the Mistress. He was so smitten, he wouldn't have any of heaven's diverse meals over her kind, sparkling eyes. Word got out of that upstairs, and, in fear of having their brother fall and become a Watcher, a bunch of angels descended to hunt down the girl and slaughter her before things became too intimate. They razed the town, and, by the time her angel swooped in to save the day, they'd already murdered her family in front of her. One of his winged buddies had his sword poised over her chest, gripping the front of her blouse, ready to impale her with a strike downwards, but before he could, her angel intervened, and was skewered by his comrade's blade instead. He died in her arms, and her tears fell on his dying face."

After a long pause, it becomes certain that Bryon's not continuing. "What happened to the girl?" I prompt, dipping two of my fingers into a crumbling water fountain.

"That's where all the legends branch out. Some say she joined her lover in death, either killed by the enraged angels or suicide. Others say she lived to a ripe old age but never loved again. A surprisingly large amount of people believe she bore him twins, and that their descendants still live today. One of the most disturbing rumors is that she made a deal with the Devil to talk with him long after death, and that he protects her even now, watching over the town she lived in and guarding it from any more of his scheming brethren."

"That's eerie." I stare at the ground, poignantly wondering if I'll be remembered for hundreds of years to come.

"Uh-huh. A lot of people say that her angel hunts these parts at night, wailing and searching for the angels which betrayed him and killed his lover. Truth be told, the only one ever wandering around here is Rumbbaa on his late-night prowls as he protects the town."

"Super creepy." My eyes linger on the beautifully sculpted buildings and the deteriorating quality of the worn paths and feral gardens. "But hey, if there's any place that such legends would be true, it's this place, right? It's kind of creepy."

"Everywhere that's not painted, definitely," Bryon agrees, grinning at the spired rooftops and wading through people. "I like that Daine hosts those contests and things. A lot of these old buildings are ugly to look at – to have professional street-artists come from all over the place to show their stuff and beautify these empty walls was a genius idea."

"I like that they let kids join in," I add. "It's cute, seeing little stick figures next to the bizarre street-artist-type drawings. I mean, it's not like even all the artists are amazing. The blue deer was just plain awful; of course, that Clockwork Angel thing was incredible…"

Bryon smiles, bronze eyes twinkling in the sun. "I can assure you that it won. Beautiful representation, too – incredibly accurate. I've met both White Wolf and Black Wolf, and vaguely can tell the personalities of the two. They don't peacefully soar around each other as most Yin-Yangs will have you believe. They hate one another, they want to rip each other's heart out, that's the very reason they go round and round on an endless chase – their bared teeth and rolling angry eyes portrayed that well."

"I liked the Clockwork Angel," I admit, recalling the beautiful ripple of copper and bronze feathers covering the golden gears in her metal wings. Her hair had been whipped into a storm of its own, covering crucial facial features. "She'd been pretty well-painted, in my opinion. I'd had no clue there were that many shades of brown."

"The Clockwork Angel!" Bryon lets out a long, low breath. "Now, there's a character! Never actually met her – no one has – but there's so many conspiracy theories, I couldn't even begin to summarize them all. Evil, good, harmonious, chaotic. She's always used to represent dawn and dusk, the times between Black and White Wolfs' domains. Some say that the wolves were her two younger sisters that grew bitter. A more popular theory is that they were two lovers, resurrected, naturally, as giant killer wolves by her equal love, and left to fight over her for all eternity. Honestly? Nobody knows what to think of her. She shows up when war is inevitable, when a righteous battle is being lost, or to protect a wife. That's all we've ever seen her, so it leads us to assume very different things. I, for one –" Abruptly, Bryon breaks off. He grabs at my arm, grip firm and shaking slightly. "Penryn, do you see the hat shop, too?"

"What?" Halted jarringly by Bryon's squeezing grip on my bicep, I turn to the building he's staring at reverently. "Yeah, that is a hat shop. 'Uncle Alec's Hat Emporium' – hey, ow!"

"Sorry," Bryon murmurs, releasing my arm, the strange spell gone. Guilt gleams in his eyes as they meet mine. "Did I hurt you? Should we get you a medic?"

"No, nothing that severe," I reassure. Seeing his dubious expression, I add, "It's not even going to bruise, Bryon. You just held me a little too tight over a…" I squint at the faded baby blue letters. "Hat Emporium?"

"Ah, about that," Bryon coughs, blushing slightly. I'd never seen my uncle abashed before – his bronze eyes are trained on the ground, and his feet shuffle. "Well, you see, Audiat had this bizarre fascination with clothing. She'd hoard it – and not in the female shopping way, but simply because it was clothing. Socks, mittens, cloaks – especially cloaks – and dresses fell prey to her. I picked up one of those habits. I, ah, have a hat fetish."

A surprised bout of laughter explodes from my throat. "What?"

"I really, really, like hats, alright?" Bryon glances away from me, crossing his arms like a miserable two-year-old. "Don't laugh at me. I'm sure you've got some hidden weird thing. And honestly, hats are cool. Before I came to you all, I had a marvelous blue-and-black striped hat with a stuffed snake twining around it." He sighs wearily. "But I had to get rid of it, because you can't just walk up to your nemesis in hats like that. The stuffed snake's embers smelled a bit like cinnamon."

"So, you want a new hat?" I interpret, smothering giggles quite poorly.

"Yes, actually, I do. Stop laughing. It's not funny. It's a very serious problem." But he's smiling, grinning down at me with glimmering eyes, delighted with my laughter as much as I am. "You can have a hat, too, if you'd like. It's a Hat Emporium – I'm sure there's plenty of hats to go around."

And, before I know it, I'm browsing through row after row of hat racks, Bryon critiquing every headwear he comes across. The smiley shopkeeper, a suited man in a sequined red robin-hood cap, invited us both in with a smile and a handshake, before waddling off through his labyrinth of hats.

"What do you think about this one?" I lower a snug fedora with a purple band around the width onto my head, striking a pose.

Bryon nearly roars with laughter. "Truth be told, you look like a genderbent Hugo!"

"Ah, no." I gingerly lower the hat back onto its pedestal, wading through more options. "I don't usually wear hats, so –"

"Crime," Bryon spits, his head poking above the hat rack to my left. "You are a criminal."

"Let me finish! I don't usually wear hats, so I don't know what's good on me."

Bryon shoves aside a few spinning racks to come by my side, wearing a goofy baseball cap covered in flowers over his hair. "Well, let's see. I'm looking for a beanie, because I love beanies and beanies love me. So, unless you want to look like you're looking up to your uncle as a role model" – a sense of wistfulness enters and then departs his voice, so sudden I can't be sure it was there at all – "you'll have to avoid those. Also, avoid Hugo-hats. You know the type. So maybe…" He plucks a beret from a high shelf, offering it to me. "This?"

"No," I refuse immediately, shaking my head almost aggressively. "No, not at all. But I would like to see you in – " I confiscate a white beanie from the head of a faceless mannequin.

Bryon grins and snatches the beanie from my hand, forcing it onto his head. And, in a way, he looks cute with the whiskers and the brown hair flying every which way from under his cap. Striking a pose, Bryon questions, "So, how do I look, Penny, darling?"

"Don't call me Penny," I chide, "and I think you look amazing. Is that your hat?"

Bryon sighs heavily. He tugs it from his head, leaving his hair mussed and fluffy. "That's the exact reason I'm not buying this particular beanie. It looks good on me. That is not the purpose of a hat. A hat is not meant to flatter – rather, the exact opposite."

"You have a funny view on hats. So, what are you looking for in a hat?"

"The most ridiculous, beautiful, magnificent –" He gasps, eyes going round. His lower lip shivers, and then falls. "That. That is what I am looking for."

Next thing I know, we're walking out of the shop with newly adorned hats, pudgy Uncle Alec waving cheerful farewells. Bryon grins like a child that'd just discovered the answer to their most puzzling problem, striding down the street with a surreal, swinging step. I follow, smiling almost as broadly as people stare at us with anything from personally offended to just as childishly delighted as Bryon.

I had scored a silky black top hat with golden swirls around the base and a scarlet ribbon around the rim. Though I don't march about with the glee my uncle so proudly portrays, in my own sense, I am equally pleased with it. I'd never been all that big on hats, but this one feels right for the occasion.

Bryon has a black beanie, one almost too large for even his broad head. If that'd been it, he probably wouldn't have looked like a complete fool. But, instead, stitched in right above his forehead, is a giant smiling flower, its stalk emerging from the top of his head and curving down into a cheerful daisy blossom with limp plushy flower petals. It bobs with every step, swinging back and forth between his eyes. And never before have I seen a grown man so pleased to wear such a humiliating hat.

"Hey, Penryn," Bryon cries, nudging me with his elbow, "watch this!"

He rolls back his head in a majestic arch, and the flower rolls with him, turning in a complete circle. With each repetition, his grin grows broader. And we stay like that, for a while, merely strolling down the center of the street with smiles and sparkling eyes, both marveling over our hats, until, unbeknownst the two of us, the Watchers return.

As I walk beside Bryon, admiring the mosaic on one building's wall, I can almost see the flash of movement, almost catch the gleam of golden feathers high in the air before it dives down. My mouth opens in a silent warning not able to escape my throat in time as a golden angel whisks from the sky, gliding over the crowds and pulling Bryon's beanie from his head. With a mighty beat of his metallic wings, the golden angel rises in the sky, hovering over an old copper arch turned green by the elements' wrath.

To me, it seems like a challenge, the way he flaps his wings and waves the hat cruelly about, laughing thunderously.

By this time, my warning has escaped my mouth. Bryon's eyes dart about in confusion, his mussed hair fluffed out like a cockatoo chick, and his brow knit together in bewilderment. His eyes search as his hands fly up to pat his head in puzzlement – once he spots the golden angel, gleaming above the arch like a drop of sunlight, his eyes darken, lips twisting with panic.

Without another word to me, Bryon bolts after the angel, bellowing, "He's got my hat! He's got my hat! My father's got my hat! Somebody, get my hat back!"

So, Thea and Sariel are coming into play next chapter, just so we're aware. For those that haven't been kept up to date, Sariel is Bryon's father.

Probably won't be updating for a while now – off to the middle of nowhere, I go! I wanted to get this chapter out before I left, though, so its quality may be a little… lacking. I tried to comb through it as finely as I could. Please, alert me if you find any mistakes so I can remedy them before any other readers can catch them, alright?

POLL: Puzzle pieces, puzzle pieces, so many puzzle pieces – where do they all fit? What's the final image? Let's focus on Belle primarily for this one, eh?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh