Chapter Forty
Evidently, Black Wolf decides that, since I'm curled up in the arms of Raffe with a little baby Nephilim sheltered against me, I need to dream of my archenemy. And, amazingly, I don't initially hate him – perhaps because I'm seeing a little baby demon sheltered against his older brother's side.
"I don't understand," the little Lucius weeps, curled up in a ball with his head hidden by arms and legs, his tiny, shadowy wings wrapping around him, as if he's trying to fade into the darkness. "I don't understand! I did everything, Luther! I did everything he asked!"
Curling his wings and arms around the maybe six-year-old Lucius, the older demon seems, though more horrifying in appearance, less frightening in demeanor. The gnarled, ugly, blood-red face of the nurturer seems to be gentled marginally by the tenderness in his beady black eyes.
"Hush, now," Luther soothes, rocking his little bawling brother back and forth, causing his hook-encrusted wings to scrape horridly against the wall they both huddle beside. "Shh, shh, shh, don't cry… you'll win next time, I'm sure."
"Even if I did," sobs Lucius bitterly, "he'd say that I was cheating and send me to the slaveyards. He hates me, Luther! He hates me!"
"But I don't." Taking one lumpy finger tipped with a jagged black nail, Luther gently wipes the tears from Lucius's pale cheek. "I never will, Lucius." He pauses. "I think maybe the reason Papa always wins family game night is because he always chooses the game. He excels in strategy and war tactics, so he gets games like that. I can't learn anything, but you're great at math. I've heard tales of people winning card games through math."
"But we never play card games!" Lucius sniffles, blinking up at Luther with – if I had been standing, I would've faltered – beautiful bronze eyes almost the exact shade of Bryon's. The paths of crystalline tears trace down his face in gentle arches. "He'll never, ever play card games! I won't learn, ever!"
"Don't be so dramatic," Luther chides, one of his hands fishing around in one of his pockets. "I got the idea earlier the morning and picked up a pack of cards – I thought I could teach you."
Lucius blinks up at Luther, his long, white eyelashes gorgeous against the magnificent bronze of his eyes. "So if you teach me…" He trails off, holding in his breath, as if not even daring to hope.
"Go on," Luther coaxes.
"If you teach me how to play cards, and I get good at it…" His bronze eyes flare with hope, so passionate and beautiful that his wings quiver with apprehension. "Then Dad will see that I can actually win a game! He'll see… he'll see I'm not just some lowlife! Right, Luther? Right?"
"Exactly." Smiling broadly through his severe underbite, Luther holds out the deck of cards, fanning it out in one scaly hand. "Now, to start out with, there are fifty-four cards…"
The dream fades and blurs, slowly becoming another scene with the similar dank environment, this time with a Lucius maybe ten years of age sitting opposite from Luther at a little table, bent over a deck of cards.
"You've got it," Luther comforts, shaking his head in slight awe. "If you wanted, you could go against Papa now and you'd win, fair and square. There's no reason for you to have to continue this."
"But I like it," Lucius protests, looking up from the cards he'd been studying with a flash of bronze eyes. "It's fun. I like figuring out all the math and stuff – did you hear that I got invited to the debate over the function of gravity in the universe? Everyone who's anyone in the science world will be there! I'll have to sneak out, Dad'd never let me go, but it'll be fun! Bryon said he'll watch out for me!"
"And I trust Bryon," Luther amends, "but don't you think it's time you went ahead and confronted Pa? The longer you put it off, the greater your anxiety will grow."
"No." Lucius lifts an ace from a stack of cards and grins triumphantly at it. "The greater my knowledge will grow. The only thing that can help a weakling like me is knowledge. It's what will help me rise over Dad's brutish ways, so I need to know absolutely everything. That way, someday, I'll be able to overthrow him, and turn this place into someplace everyone would want to be." He looks up from his cards. "Like Heaven. I'll make it like Heaven."
"Hush," Luther hisses, eyes darting around nervously. "That's talk of treason. Papa already doesn't like you…"
I am ripped from that vision and placed into another world, another reality. This one is light and sunny whereas the last had been dismal and dark – creatures of all species converse in a massive ballroom-type room filled with tables and sofas; even a messy looking Bryon lounges over one of the armchairs with dark bags beneath his eyes, his clothing rumpled and wrinkled and his hair sticking up in every which direction.
"Father," calls a voice closer to what I know, except its tones strangely splayed over an odd chord. A confident Lucius strides into the room, looking like a comely fourteen year old boy still caught halfway between child and man, his growing figure filled out primarily with the stunning white suit he wears. Puzzled, I stare at him – aside from the pale skin, there's nothing that hints to him being the awful demon I know, no fangs coated with dripping black poison, no devilish eyes pitted deep into his sharp face, no shadowy presence of despair accompanying him as he walks swiftly through the room. In fact, demons and Nephilim alike smile at him, waving and calling his name.
Half a step behind him follows Luther, who gets none of the same greeting, but instead a cold shoulder, as if his fearsome appearance makes him untouchable.
An armored, white-skinned Fallen angel that'd towered over his companions as they'd quarreled over a map turns irately to the approaching boy, scowling mightily at Lucius. As his sons approach, an awful, sticky feeling spreads through my stomach, the dread of knowing that something awful is coming.
"I feel like playing a game, something to get these rusty gears clicking once again after a long nighttime of slumber," Lucius announces, smiling pleasantly, his expression not one of a feared enemy, but rather a best friend. "How do you feel about a game of cards, father dearest?"
"I am busy," Lucifer growls, baring his teeth. His intimidating height of eight feet begins to scare me, even though I'm not truly there. "Go play with your boyfriend."
"I'm not actually gay," Bryon sighs, rubbing at his eyes as he refills his cup of coffee-like liquid.
"Get a wife," Sariel advises sluggishly, spanned out on the coffee table as if it were a bed, looking even more asleep than his son.
"Or a husband, if you're into that sort of thing," Thea chuckles, her eyes twinkling.
Ignoring that entirely, Lucius steps closer, pulling a deck of cards from his suit pocket and then flipping them from hand to hand like a magician. "Oh, come now, we haven't even begun the meetings. How I've missed our little family game nights, father dearest! Just for a taste of…" Like a cheesy old movie, Lucius holds out the fan of cards, grinning courageously from behind the edges. "Good old times?"
"I told you to go, Lucius," he growls, turning his back on his son, a clear indication that the case had closed. I do not miss the way that both Bryon and Luther tense up, raising their heads as if at last noticing the same tension in the air I feel.
"Oh, come now, father –" Lucius steps forward, placing a beckoning hand on Lucifer's arm.
And Lucifer strikes back, throwing his son across the room so that Lucius is the center of attention. A deathly silence falls over the ballroom.
"I HAVE TOLD YOU NO!" the Devil bellows, eyes bursting into literal flame. "AGAIN AND AGAIN, YOU DISGRACE ME WITH YOUR SILLY RANTS!" He strides powerfully forward, his pale skin starting to darken, to turn an awful maroon shade. "AND YET YOU HAVE EVERYONE FOOLED, DON'T YOU? WITH YOUR CHARM AND WIT YOU ENTICE PEOPLE INTO A DEEP SLEEP, ONLY TO PLUNDER FROM THEM IN THEIR SLUMBER. WHY CAN'T YOU BE LIKE YOUR BROTHER?"
Luther looks on with horror, not stepping in between his father and brother, but looking as if he wished he could.
Lucifer has the stage as he kicks brutally at Lucius's ribs, slamming his son back into the stone wall. No one dares intervene, even as things get only more and more drastic.
"THEY SCOFF AND SCORN AT YOUR BROTHER!" Lucifer roars. "THEY ACT AS IF HE IS THE SCROUGE OF THE WORLD! HE IS A PERFECT SON YET IS CURSED WITH PHYSICAL IMPERFECTION! YOU ARE AN INSOLENT BASTARD WITH NO RESPECT FOR AUTHORITY! YOU THINK YOU HAVE ME FOOLED BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS UNDER YOUR SPELL? DO YOU?"
Lucius croaks out something unintelligibly, huddling against the wall like he has as a child, his wings wrapped around him, his face hidden in his hands and legs, lacking only the supporting brother.
"NOT ANYMORE!" The thunderous cry echoes around the ballroom. "NOT ANYMORE, YOU WRETCHED SON OF A BITCH! LET ALL THOSE WHO LOOK YOU IN THE EYES FIND YOU AS MADDENING AS I FIND YOU! MAY YOUR FACE BE AS UGLY AS YOUR SOUL! MAY YOUR SPIT BE AS POISONOUS AS YOUR TONGUE! LET ALL OF THEM SEE WHAT YOU REALLY ARE, YOU MONSTROUS BASTARD!"
An agonized scream rises above the last word Lucifer speaks, and, as his father's hands glow with energy, Lucius writhes, clawing at his eyes and face as slowly, ever so slowly, he turns into the monster I know him as today. His high-pitched cries of anguish remind me of his young age, their never ceasing ferocity making me want to look away. With awful sounds of tearing flesh, hooks and barbs pierce through his beautiful slender bat wings, turning them scaly and awkward – the blood that gushes around the hooks originally has scarlet shades, but gradually becomes a thick, chunky black ooze. As he throws back his head in a tortured scream, I see his pink tongue growing longer and thinner, and his blunt teeth slowly burgeoning into sharklike points.
Everyone that'd been calling his name looks away, finding a sudden interest in their shoes or their coffee mugs, and not a single person helps the tortured demon up when at last the Devil steps back, not even Bryon, not even Luther.
"What the hell," I whisper as the she-aerie comes into view. Belle whistles in agreement, her head poking out from over Raffe's shoulder and her mane rippling in the breeze; although she can fly for short periods of time and can dive at amazing speeds, she doesn't have the endurance for the long flights Raffe commits to, and thus usually ends up perched on his shoulder.
"I told you they were weird," Raffe sighs, shaking his head. "Decided to erect a skyscraper instead of just finding an empty one –"
"I seriously doubt you and I have the same definitions of empty skyscrapers," I inject, recalling the once-busy cities the aeries I'd visited had been centered in.
"– and claiming it." He shoots me a glance saying you're completely insufferable, but doesn't make an argument out of my statement. "Which, I suppose, is rather pleasant seeing as you get to make your own arrangements. In the center of the triangle of walls, there's always a massive garden. The bottom floors aren't actual living spaces. They're libraries and club rooms and the likes. Cafeteria. Kitchens. Food."
Involuntarily, my stomach rumbles, squelching awkwardly and earning me a disgusted look.
"That's cool," I remark, trying to play off the growling of my hunger, focusing at the hollow triangle-shaped building with shiny glass plates making up all of the siding. "Where do you get in?"
"Through the hole in the middle of the triangle." Raffe says this as if it's obvious, as if I'm being ridiculous not realizing this, a silly little monkey.
Defensively, I comment, "Oh, yeah, forgot I was riding a pigeon in. I meant a ground-entrance for all non-angelic races."
"You'll have to ask the other servants." Raffe's speed slows dramatically, as if he'd crossed an invisible boundary, as if he'd entered restricted air space. "I'd imagine they'd have one, though, given all those houses down there."
Being pinned against Raffe's chest the way I am, I cannot see the ground directly beneath us, and only barely see the rapidly approaching she-aerie, but I imagine a sprawl of little tents and cottages and cars made into homes of the humans surrounding the aerie, and the busy bustle of workers entering and exiting the building. It'd be quite peaceful down there, I'd wager, remembering the patches of green lawns in the seas of gold and brown.
"They seem to be much more relaxed on the terms of security," I notice, frowning in disapproval at the lack of even chain-link fences defending the perimeter of the triangular building. "Why is that?"
"It looks like that, doesn't it?" Raffe agrees, banking suddenly as a flock of she-angels take the air, apparently coming to meet us midway. "No security… well, all you monkeys are more or less their security system. Instead of ignoring you like we usually do, the she-angels let monkeys sleep on a pillow beside their beds, like beloved guard dogs. You couldn't see it through the trees, but miles before you could even catch a glimpse of this meadow, there were little herds of humans scurrying back to the cover of their dens and reporting us to the angel's communication center. Ariel's known we're coming since roughly an hour ago."
"Really?" My interest wanes. "What do the people get out of it?"
"Well, this land beneath us isn't just empty. Aside from the occasional hut, it's farmland, Penryn, and the she-angels cultivate it for fun – we do army workouts, they make plants grow, go figure. They're the tractor angels and do it all themselves, don't worry, they don't send humans out to grovel in the mud. But they not only provide all the humans in their outer limits safety, food, and a cell phone, but they offer medical assistance. The doors to their library are always open to anyone. As long as you're not too bothered by angels supplying your every resource, I guess it's not that bad a job."
"So, the people report a threat to the she-angels… how do they react?" I gaze out towards the triangle, pointing towards the she-angels. "I see those chicks flying our direction, but that wouldn't be enough to fight off a battalion of angry angels storming the she-aerie."
Raffe shrugs. "We were on the opposite sides last time Ariel and I clashed; I don't know how far her homeless network spreads, I don't know how many humans she has working for her, and I don't know how she gets the she-angels ready for battle on the turn of a dime. In fact, I hope to learn that."
"Them be fighting words, Raffe." I shoot him an abasing glare. "They're on your side. Don't let your grudges ruin this chance for us."
Raffe is silent, although whether that's because he doesn't have a suitable answer to grant me or whether it's out of respect for the she-angels that have at last reached us, I'm not sure.
The girl heading the pack looks speckled in color, like a Dalmatian, except in reverse – her skin is a warm caramel, but snowy, crisp white patches speckle over the few areas of her body that are exposed, clumping at her eyes and mouth. Her close-cropped blonde hair is streaked with white. Even the beautiful golden feathers that catch the sun's light and brightens it times a million are splashed with snowy spots, as if she's albino in spots. Admittedly, I've never seen it on a white girl, I've seen the symptoms before – vitiligo.
She loops in one quick, tight circle around Raffe, as if reining him in, corralling him into a small mass of air. As if following her example, the crowd of she-angels that'd nipped at her heels surround Raffe and I, their vibrant wings scooping the air, until they form a tight sphere, forcing him to hover in place with barely enough room for his wings to keep us midair.
"Maion," Raffe calls in greeting as the spotted woman whirls back to the front to face him with a bright flash of golden wings.
"Raphael," she greets, smiling slowly but candidly, her green eyes, though hinted with gut-wrenching caution, bright and welcoming. Then, tipping her head towards me with an even bigger smile, she announces my name.
"Oh, uh –" I hesitate, certain that, no matter how much I may strive to pronounce her name correctly, the twist of angelic names and the strange accents they use when saying them makes it that much more difficult to even discern a butchered version of her name. "May-on?"
Maion hums with laughter. "Close enough. Ariel shall see you now."
Though I'm fairly certain it's an invitation to speak, Raffe doesn't utter a word, and without his approval on any speech, I don't dare talk out of term. As one by one, the angels peel away from their aggressive circle around us in flashes of beautiful wings in every shade, including one woman with feathers splashed with colors like a parrot's, I wonder if maybe they are speaking to one another with body language, some animal way, like on those nature documentaries. Didn't Hugo say something once about angelic social classes being a lot like wolves'? Could they talk like wolves, too?
At that, a sudden thought hits me – either the she-angel Maion had grazed over Belle without a greeting or she hadn't seen the little dragon at all. I glance towards her previous perch to find that the dragon had gone missing, maybe disappearing down into Raffe's hoodie. Though somewhat puzzled as to why she would've shied from the she-angels and where she is exactly, I don't ask any questions, careful not to break the silence snugly griping the air.
Instead, I search for Audiat amongst the crowd of winged people. I'm fairly certain that she'd rank above most of the ground troops, maybe even this Maion lady, but I don't quit looking until I remember that she'd gone to another aerie on a diplomatic mission. Immediately feeling stupid, I search for other antics to occupy my thoughts.
No angels circle the air like they had near the San Francisco aerie – in fact, there's scarcely an angel in sight, aside from a single winged woman perched on the edges of each of the triangle's corners. As we draw closer to the building, I notice a single square out of the top floor that seems odd – instead of the atypical mirrored windows, colorful stained-glass portraits reside. My lips quirk, and, instantly, I know which little she-angel resides there.
"Is that Audiat's place?" I whisper to Raffe, hesitant to break the silence.
"Yes," calls Maion, her face tilted at an angle that looks uncomfortable as she gazes back at us, guiding her way through the air currents without the use of her eyes. "Do you know Audiat, Miss Young?"
"She's my aunt, ma'am, and she's walked through my dreams." I hope she'll both hear me over the sound of Raffe's wings and understand what I'm trying to get across. "I'd say I know her decently."
Maion seems to smile slowly, a touch of mystery in her composed expression. "Hmm, well, you might just be in for a shock, my dear. But silence now. We approach Ariel."
Though it wasn't a rude shush, it shuts me up efficiently as Raffe soars over the gaping hole. The she-angels around us tip into graceful dives, seeming almost like suicidal doves as they pirouette once in the air so that their faces are to the sun before arching backwards. At the sight of them taking nose-dives around us, I grow slightly nervous – diving is the worst thing when you're being carried in an angel's arms.
But thankfully, Maion and Raffe both remain in the air, slowly gliding down with their wings raised like parachutes, angling towards a magnificent balcony. As we descend, I peer around curiously – instead of having straight walls on the inside of the triangle, instead of having windows or walkways or anything at all, sumptuous balconies jut from all sides. Because the space in between the walls is simply so immense, the balconies don't threaten to overlap one another. Angels flit from porch to porch, with some seeming to be access points into the main building instead of personal homes. They don't ever venture high enough to be seen over the lip of the triangle, a successful strategy to conceal their enormous population.
The sheer quantity of balconies and angels astonishes me – had all of the she-angels clumped together? Every last one of them? For this lone skyscraper, this aloof structure built to pierce through the heavens, provides a home for many, many more than the last aeries had, and that's assuming that every she-angel has a balcony flat.
Had they constructed this themselves or used human labor? Had it been fair if people had been involved? Were they paid for their efforts?
Jarring me from my thoughts, Raffe sets down on the balcony, his massive white wings folding against his back. I watch the snowy feathers slide in on one another, smiling slightly to myself at the notch I'd carved into their perfect ray. He gently sets me on my feet, one arm remaining around my waist – I would've believed he'd placed it there to steady me had I not been perfectly balanced on the tile floor and had his eyes not been quite so soft as they roved over my face.
To be blushing as Ariel approaches would be unprofessional, so I feign a mood of disinterest withhis attentions.
My skin crawls as I inspect the balcony, appalled. Perched on the smooth metal hand railing are multiple female cherubs, their babylike heads seemingly melded onto tiny lions' bodies. Almost as if one of them recognizes me, its fat, pink lips quiver with a snarl, revealing sharklike teeth beneath its skin, and its serpentine tail lashes back and forth like a golden whip. Seeing the focus of my attention, Raffe's hand strays towards his sword.
Before I can dwell long over the living gargoyles, something stirs in the shadows between the two whitewood doors that'd casually been thrown open – the silky roll of golden-hued fabric ripples amongst the darkness, and two pairs of metallic eyes blaze to life. I don't see the third pair until Ariel steps into the light, allowing the sun to shed its gaze upon the eyes nearly the color of the shadows themselves.
As she emerges from the darkness, I quickly discover that it's one thing to experience Ariel's powerful and intimidating presence through a dream, and quite another to feel her dark, cold glare on yours. Her face is utterly impassive upon first glance, and upon the second as well, but the longer I stare at her, the angrier her frozen features become, the more threatening her emotionless eyes grow. As she glides forward, dress rippling around her feet like a queen's gown, she commands respect, and carries with her a sense of dignity and righteous pride.
Around her feet trot two more cherubs, these two much more muscled and beefy than the ones guarding the balcony, like Queen Bees. They, too, don't seem overly pleased to have me here, shoving their tufty ears back and perking their lips over their fangs in silent snarls.
As soon as Ariel crosses some invisible boundary, Maion drops to a low kneel, her wings spanning out on either side of her and angled downwards. Though Raffe doesn't move, evidently greeting Ariel as an equal, I decide that perhaps it's better I don't push my luck with this particularly daunting archangel.
Worming out from Raffe's protective grip, I fall to a kneel myself, sinking as low as I can and tipping my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swallow with difficulty, feeling Raffe's incredulous judgment at my back and Ariel's shrewd analysis at my front.
"Rise, both of you," Ariel intones, her deep voice a mellifluous purr. "Maion, thank you. You are dismissed."
Maion bows crisply once before taking to the air immediately, flapping as quickly away from the balcony as possible. I wonder what has her in such a hurry as I rise back again beside Raffe. Have we caught Ariel in a dismal mood?
"Allow me to make myself clear before I continue with any formal greetings." Ariel crosses her arms over her chest, baring the silvery scars tracing up and down her black forearms. "You are here because of my hospitality and my hospitality only, and my hospitality does not come without its requirements. Raphael, should you get so much as tipsy, you shall be considered an enemy of this aerie and hunted like a pig. Should you touch any female" – her dark eyes slide briefly to me – "in a way she does not want to, I will personally snap your neck. Should you act in any way that might point to any sort of betrayal, I shall feed you to my cherubs without question. Are we understood so far?"
Raffe nods, his sour expression reminding me how much he hates being on the receiving end of orders. "Yes, we are. Do continue, it's quite rapturing."
Unbothered by Raffe's jibe, Ariel continues without pause. "Because of the nature you are known by nowadays, dear Fallen hero, you shall be expected to plunge yourself deep into hiding should any he-angels stop by, or that viper, Laylah. I simply cannot afford another exposed nerve at the moment. Privileges like chefs and servants can be easily confiscated at the slightest report of abuse or scandal. All the people you see in this building are protected, even those without wings. You shall eat with the masses at eight o'clock sharp each morning, at twelve thirty noon, and at six o'clock in the evening. If we catch you snooping about outside of your apartment after eleven at night, you will be chained and forced to sleep in the dungeon. Again, are we clear?"
Raffe grunts in reluctant submission, eyes ablaze with hatred. Stamping him on the foot, I nod pleasantly, reminding myself religiously to be safe in my apartment by ten. Ariel, however, takes notice of my gesture and the nervous look on my face, and reforms the rules for me.
"Most of that retains to Raphael," she informs me, her voice not soft but perhaps not as rough. "The eating times are the same, of course, but you have a little more liberty until you give me a reason to take it away. Should you miss a meal time, you can always beg from the chefs – they're quite commodious to their own species, and with every right. If you're found out past curfew, you'll be given a nice sleeping pad and be asked to sleep in the cafeteria. My trust in both my own judge of character and Bryon's internal sense of right and wrong tells me that you won't be a weakness but an asset – however, both have been wrong before. Show any sort of malice or anything deemed unnecessary to dwell beneath my roof and you shall find yourself cast out of my borders. Clear, Miss Young?"
"Yes, ma'am." I bow my head with respect. "I'll do my best to keep out of trouble."
"Unfortunately, trouble clings to your partner," Ariel points out, "so I shall be gracious for a few minor errors. You are the Dragon King's blood. Although his actions do not speak for you, it's quite the reputation to be upholding, with quite a lot of glory in its past incarnations. I expect much from you."
"Don't overwhelm her," Raffe growls by my side.
"Apologies." Ariel looks candid, eyes flashing empathetically, but her tone still seems stiff – perhaps it's a permanent setting for her. "Now, let us discuss the plan if he-angels return with Audiat after her diplomatic mission, which, given the situation, they almost certainly will."
"I trust I'll be getting an apartment of my own?" Raffe questions forcefully, his tone dark.
Ariel's eyes narrow. "Second to top floor, furnished moderately richly. Miss Young, do you wish for your own as well?"
"That'd be nice," I admit, not really wanting to get stuck on a couch while Raffe lounges all over a plush queen bed. "Really nice. But it doesn't have to be high up or anything."
Ariel smiles. "Well, first I must propose Audiat's little idea to you. She has offered her own apartment – she apologies in advance for the clutter – as long as she is gone, and the time after it if you prefer; she has bunk beds and a hammock."
"Oh…" I hesitate and then smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
Nodding crisply, Ariel flicks her hand, and one of the cherubs by her side prance into the darkness, its claws scraping over the marble flooring. "Consider it yours. However, if he-angels do come on a planned trip, Raffe, the disguise Audiat is creating for you as we speak details your noble quest to slaughter her husband having a place to crash here – should they come here, I'd prefer it if we kept the two of you together. Therefore, you shall stay in the same flat when he-angels are present, given that Miss Young shall act as a quaint maid whenever the others are around, or whenever she is required to listen in on a conversation without attracting attention. Understood?"
"Yeah." "Hear you loud and clear."
"Good." Ariel regards the two of us coolly, gazing at us through her eyelashes. "Now, onto other businesses. What is that in your shirt, Raphael? Are you hiding something?"
"That's Belle," I answer quickly for him, cutting off his bristling defenses for the little dragon curled up quite obviously in the pocket of his hoodie. "She's a Nephilim. Bryon told us to take care of her. She's a little shy, and she doesn't really like being around angels, so she hid."
Ariel raises both of her eyebrows, her look one of exotic incredulity. "An infant Nephilim took cover from some of the most docile angels in the hoodie pocket of the sole most dangerous. Forgive me for finding that difficult to believe, Miss Young, no offense to you meant."
"Well, forgive me for kindly pointing out that it is Raphael, the most dangerous angel of them all, providing the nice warm pocket, whereas you have lion things curled around your feet." I cock one eyebrow. "If I were a Nephilim, I'd be sticking by his side, too."
Instead of responding to my fire, Ariel laughs, perhaps the first show of true emotion over her face. Tipping back her head with the thrumming bellows of laughter, she smiles with poignant, mysterious joy, eyes still tainted with the after effects of her past authority, still dripping with the remnants of her power.
"Your uncle claims that you and he have nearly nothing in common," Ariel chuckles, her eyes gently smoldering, like the coals of a dormant inferno. "And yet, with the proof of my encounter with you right there, I beg to differ. That was a very Bryon-esque answer. I have a feeling that you and I shall get along well, Penryn. On the subject of Bryon, do either of you know where he is, currently?"
Her eyes rove from person to person, lips plunging into a stormy frown, a touch of her past coldness returning. I glance at Raffe but he's shrugging as well – I haven't heard from Bryon since I called him in the early, early morning. Now, with the sun lingering close to the horizon, I don't have the foggiest as to where the wanderer may be.
"That man…" Ariel shakes her head irritably. "I suppose I should be used to his pointless wandering by now. Did you know that he disappeared for almost an entire year last time we descended? Everyone was assuming he was dead, no one had seen him since forever, the only rumors of him being spotted goose chases through slave yards – and it turns out he was your little lapdog all along, earning your respect bit by bit. Do you remember that, Raphael?"
Raffe scowls distastefully at her. "What?" he questions icily.
"Oh, yes, I'm almost certain you remember." Ariel smiles, as if recalling warm memories. "That was the first time I'd ever seen any affection on your face, when you marched into the war meeting with Bryon – excuse me, Simon – padding at your heels. He'd casually whisper things into your ears, the finer points of debates – Audiat overheard him – and you'd get this approving look in your eyes. Never let him see it, of course, but you did respect him, didn't you?"
"Simon is Bryon," Raffe deadpans, as if tasting the words on his tongue. He shakes his head firmly. "No. That's impossible. I burned Simon."
"Bryon is fireproof, actually. Besides, you also killed that pesky bronze dragon several times, if my memory serves correct," Ariel points out, chuckling dryly to herself, stroking the head of her cherub and causing it to purr with pleasure. "Is it so difficult for you to grasp that the Nephilim King bears you no ill will, Raffe? He is a funny man, I will grant, but never one you should ever harbor any doubts about. All you need to do to receive his forgiveness is ask. All you ever need to do is ask."
Spite swells in Raffe's eyes, blackening his face into a terrifying scowl. "He was the one that's been lying to me all this time!" Raffe growls, grinding his teeth. Raking a hand through his hair, Raffe adds, "I should've known it was suspicious, that saintlike attitude of Simon's. He was just there to spy, to eavesdrop, wasn't he?"
"At first," Ariel admits, "he most definitely was. But then he grew to tolerate you, like you, even. We could all see it in his demeanor towards you – you'd gained his respect, not by being a cruel, heartless leader with no compassion for his subjects, but by showing gentleness. He hadn't thought you were capable of gentle emotions, evidently. It's why he stuck around, you realize, why he kept you straight. If it weren't for Bryon, I'd say you'd still be a stupid drunk, drowning in your own woes."
"What did he do?" I inquire, hoping that my curiosity doesn't get the better of me.
"Faked his death," Raffe growls, fingers clenching into fists, trembling slightly. "Made it seem like I'd killed him, he did!"
"What?" I gasp.
"I mourned him!" Raffe bellows, his wings flexing agitatedly on his back, two pale crescents waxing and waning against the golden afternoon light. "That bastard!"
"Calm yourself right now," Ariel orders with cool restraint, "or else you'll be kicked out of this aerie before you ever really stepped foot in it."
Raffe falls silent immediately, but the tension had not left his body. I step sideways towards him and shove my fingers into his stiff and unresponsive hand, staring imploringly up at him. His jaw clenches and unclenches angrily, and I can see his eyes darken with annoyance at my persistence, but when he does meet my gaze, something he finds here seems to relax him. Slowly, his fingers curl around mine, gently pulling me against him so that our shoulders touch.
Ariel watches this intently but without comment, continuing only after the show concludes.
"One night when Raphael was drunk, Bryon allowed himself to beat nearly to death by this idiot." She tips her head towards Raphael. "Back in the day, he was a saint for doing that each night, because beforehand, anyone around was subjected to Wrath of God's terrifying might.
"After being bloodied and trampled on, that night, Bryon did not tuck Raphael into bed as he normally did, he didn't prepare a breakfast meal. He didn't even move from his placement sprawled on the floor. He did, however, bite his own tongue and inject himself with the poison coating his fangs. It doesn't kill him, being the bearer of the poison. It does put him in a coma with death eminent if he doesn't wake soon, a coma that he can only be roused from when confronted with smoke, a coma that made his heartbeats so far apart, he seemed to be dead."
"So…" I turn to Raffe, meeting his impassive gaze. "You woke up to a dead Bryon on the floor, and you… what?"
"Freaked out," Raffe sighs wearily, glancing away.
"'Freaked out' is a mild way of putting it," Ariel agrees. "Everyone in the upper ranks and in the hospital was aware of the trick, just to let you know – we'd all decided it was time for Simon to slip away. He stormed into the clinic cradling Bryon in his arms and slammed him down onto a medical table. When the doctors confirmed that Bryon had been 'beaten brutally to death' and that the cause of the untimely demise had been a crushed ribcage and a broken bone that'd pierced his lungs, that he'd been alive and struggling for breath for hours, you should've seen your angel's expression, Miss Young. It was like child that'd just found out his mother couldn't stitch back together the beloved teddy bear he'd torn apart."
My heart pulls at the image, but Raffe mutters darkly under his breath, as if cursing the graphic description of his pain, and his grip around my hand tightens minutely. Taking notice of the noise and the movement, Ariel turns back to Raffe, both of her eyebrows arched and the corners of her lips turned up in the slightest of smiles.
"Penryn, you should know," she purrs softly, "that Raphael gave Bryon a warrior's burial, refusing to allow anyone to help him with any of the preparations. Usually, they are burned on a pyre with their swords clutched in both hands on their chest. But, given that Bryon had already given up the art of war, Raffe here fashioned a staff out of the most ancient oak tree he could find, chipping away at it until it was just the right length for his loyal servant. We asked him why he chose a walking stick, and I remember he said, clear as day –"
"'Because Simon always wanted to travel the world, not destroy it,'" Raffe recalls, eyes ambivalent, submerged in ghosts of the pasts. "'So, instead of giving him a sword to fight away all the monsters, I'll give him a staff, so he won't have to hurt anyone – now, at least, he can wander wherever he chooses without ever having to worry about his feet tiring.'"
"Not exactly the translation I would've gone with," Ariel amends, "but it still maintains the beauty of it. I'm impressed you still remember. …You do realize that's the same staff he uses now, correct?"
"It would've rotten long ago," Raffe dismisses, rolling his eyes slightly.
Her smile is the closest to softness I've seen her become yet. "He had it treated, not only in oils to preserve the wood, but they say he went far beyond that, praying for divine assistance, so he could always wander wherever he chose."
"Really?" I whisper, eyes wide. "You made that, Raffe? I thought it was some gift from God."
Ariel tips back her head in a rumbling laugh. "If you asked your uncle that question, I daresay he'd tell you it was."
By the light of the dying day, Bryon makes his way through the woods like a shadow – the tethers of companions had been lifted from his shoulders and, for the slightest moment, the heavy burden bearing down upon his soul is being left in his wake. Perhaps the animals have all vacated the woods, perhaps there are no birds left to sing or crickets to chirp, or perhaps they all fall silent with the recognition of a predator in their midst.
Slowly creeping away and over the hillsides, the sun seems to glare down at Bryon with fiery heat, its anger only repressed by its desire for slumber. The trees sway with a breeze, their colorful heads nodding and bobbing together, hissing at the sound – but another noise peaks once through the hiss, low and keening. As Bryon pauses and listens intently to the woods surrounding him, the crimson-tinted shafts of sunlight seem to dance on the foliage around him, swaying rhythmically. He breathes deeply, shutting his eyes, tasting the scent of hell on the roof of his mouth.
Curiously, Bryon briefly gives up the chase – though he had been travelling quite quickly, the daylight restricts his speed and nips at his eyes with its harsh glare. Instead of dashing through the woods, he follows the mysterious scent, listening closely for the sound he expects to hear. The weight of his past slams back onto his shoulders with full force as, between the trees and framed by two glorious willows with their leaves stained red by the sunlight, a resting boy appears, curled up inside his black wings as if shutting out the world.
With a sad smile at his lips and a wail of despair at his heart, Bryon smiles frailly, knowing that the demon is aware of his presence. Despite that, he considers approaching Lucius with many a negative thought – nothing he can say will bring the Prince any comfort if it is the crippling secret he mourns over. It is a punishment for those that dare seek the truth, those that dig too deep, but centuries of habit have Bryon's legs striding smoothly forward before he's aware of it himself.
"Why are you here, old man?" Lucius snaps, his chilled voice still muffled from behind his shadowy wings. "I'm not refunding your niece's bargain, before we get started."
"I didn't come here on her behalf." Bryon's horns catch on a low-hanging branch as he steps closer, causing autumn leaves to spiral like falling fairies. "In fact, Raphael needed to take a step back to achieve his goals, and Penryn can do much better than him."
"So why are you here?" Lucius's voice turns nasty. "Going to show me the magic of friendship? I've got plenty of magic tricks already, if you'd like to see a few, but they all rely on tricks and illusions, not cuddles."
"I'm here because you look like you need to talk." Leaning on his staff, Bryon twines his hands together, blinking twice. "You could, I suppose, stuff down whatever emotions brought you to this wistful place, or you could discuss it with one willing to listen to your woes. I stay with Hugo. Nothing you ever say can be more embarrassing than hearing his secret obsessions with a naughty Fallen angel."
"Someone like you wouldn't understand," Lucius sighs, peeling his wings back and letting them stay loose, his gaze focused up the branches of the willow tree.
Bryon lifts a heavy eyebrow. "Someone like me?"
"Yes, you." Lucius laughs breathily, shutting his pale eyelids over his shadowed eyes. "A little perfect life with a little perfect world. Even a booming title. The Great Dragon King. All hail King Bryon, Lord of the Petunias."
"Lord of the Petunias?" Bryon chuckles, but quickly focuses. "Child, if you know the first thing about me, you'd know that isn't true. You'd know exactly what I've been through, and you'd know it's not completely different from your trials of labor."
"Oh, yes, silly me," Lucius cackles, clawing at his face, "your father is so much like mine! Your mother just like mine! News flash, Abercrombie – you've got it pretty damn good." He slides down the trunk of the tree, his fine white suit chaffing against the coarse bark and causing it to chip over the ground.
Bryon studies Lucius sadly, a sudden surge of sorrow flooding his heart – the boy hadn't yet sought far enough to discover his involvement. For the briefest of moments, Bryon feels like clasping his hands over his ears and screaming, clawing at his eyes like Lucius had done, and loosing himself to complete and utter madness. With a heavy heart, he pushes back the miserable emotions writhing in his stomach and kneels before Lucius, resting his staff in his lap.
Without opening his eyes, Lucius tilts his head limply towards Bryon, swallowing as if it brings him pain. His lips quiver. "I don't want to be the villain anymore," he whimpers, a single blood-red tear tracing down his cheek. "I'm sick of being the monster."
"We all are monsters," Bryon murmurs, voice soft, "but that doesn't make us villains; not all of us."
"Yes, well, most monsters haven't done the things I have to survive." Lucius thrusts his head up, gazing out at the sunset with gritted teeth, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I'm sick with myself. You know better than anyone what I've done, how many I've slaughtered just to live another day – I feed off of insanity, I breathe it like you breathe air." He laughs shaking, a sense of hopelessness clinging to each chuckle. "What does that do to a man, I wonder?"
"With enough willpower, anyone can overcome their feral instincts to survive. Nature is only overwhelming if you allow it to be. My recommended diet is a healthy three-course meal of human with a side of furry creatures every mealtime, but I make do with what I believe is humane."
"You changed long ago," Lucius dismisses, gnashing his teeth, "and you hadn't done nearly the amount of things that I have. You hadn't murdered as many as I have. I've made too many mistakes and I've gone too far to back out now."
"The thing about mistakes is that we make them for a reason." Bryon smiles warmly. "If you ask me, that reason isn't so we'll make them again. Those that love you will always forgive you in the end if you simply repent."
"I highly doubt Daddy Dearest will be too keen on hearing that therapy session," Lucius laughs coldly.
"I said those that love you, Lucius." Bryon sighs broodingly. "A plant that grows in darkness can always be saved by a single light to nourish its broken leaves."
A pause in the conversation turns the air into molasses, making it almost difficult to breathe.
Lucius's lips quirk in a nasty grin, and he chuckles in his chest with dark satisfaction.
"Fascinating," the demon whispers, the trails of blood receding, trickling back into his eyes without a blemish of red left behind. "Absolutely fascinating." His eyes slide open slowly, causing Bryon to swiftly advert his gaze. Candid laughter ripples through Lucius, harsh and cruel. "Pleasure doing business with you, Dragon King."
Lucius shoots to his feet, dusting off his suit and straightening his tie. His agile wings flail in the air like a pair of silky black sheets caught in the wind, their sharp iron barbs gleaming maliciously in the low light of the evening's orange glow. Glaring haughtily down at Bryon to where the dragon still remains crouched at the base of the willow tree, Lucius tips his head in reverence grudgingly given.
"Your advise would be quite impacting, if any of my problems were actually that simple." Lucius plays with his cuffs. "Thank you for your valuable input, though, your opinion matters to us. Good day."
"Your problems are that simple, though." Careful not to meet the demon's treacherous gaze, Bryon stares after Lucius as he stalks off, not bothering to rise from the thoughtful crouch. "The thing about the lies you were telling, the ones you were trying – and failing – to fool me with, is that they need to be backed with truth in order for them to be realistic. One can fake the strain in a voice and tears across a cheek, but one can never falsify the ache in the heart. Don't claim the upper hand after you've poured out your soul to anyone."
"You really think I'm just as pathetic as you?" Lucius cackles bloodcurdlingly, halting in his tracks and half-cocking his head towards Bryon with a malicious grin, black tongue flickering at his lips. "You believe that everyone is a delicate little pansy? Oh, no, my friend, what audiences really wants is a good old fashioned villain."
"And so the damaged child continued to paint himself as a beloved king in his own mind," Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly, "unaware that, with every stroke of his brush, he delved deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness and despair. Let go of the brush, Lucius; I want to help you."
Lucius's voice is frigid, but with a note of almost wistfulness flavoring the cadence of his name. "Good day, Bryon."
I'm so happy for the story of the staff to finally be out. It's kind of been floating around for a while now, that staff, but now it's finally been addressed. Now the only mysteries are what the hell about the eternity cloak and the happy glow flowers…
And a whole lot more.
Fortieth chapter at last. I can't wait. I really can't.
POLL: Every villain had their fall from glory, and Lucius's came by his father's hand. When he needed his brother most, his brother did not come to comfort him. After his great dream was shattered, no one came to wipe his tears out of fear for his blazing eyes. But here's the question – did the experience turn him into a damaged child or a good old fashioned villain?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh