Chapter Forty Five
As I had predicted, inside the Archives, the aura is much more mysterious, the dust swirling up from every old scroll I unravel. Metatron, humiliated both by Lucius and her reactions to his ridicules, had been more than accommodating as she'd granted me access to her treasured cumulative research. After hearing much of what I wanted to learn, what I was frustrated about knowing very little about, she'd been very generous in her tips of where to search for answers to all of my questions, writing them all down on a paper in her notebook and then handing it to me, then scurrying out of the Archives to attend her city of awaiting books.
Though the door had been shut tightly after she'd left the room, to better preserve the ancient documents I must handle with gloves and low-lighting, after a few moments locked away in the eerie, dust-coated room with swaying yellow lights and eerie, moving shadows dancing over the walls, I'd guiltily cracked it open, allowing a sliver of fresh air to seep into the room and for the distant murmur of conversation to reach me in this quarantined room.
Drawing reassurance from the shaft of white light streaking through the room, I walk lazily through the aisles, grazing my finger over the tops of the filing cabinets collecting dust, strolling down the aisle until I reach one that I hesitate at.
Wolves and Other Creatures Seemed to Have Sprung From Myth
Would Lucius's monster fit beneath this category?
Would his hellhounds?
Glancing once inquisitively towards the demons files, I continue onwards, frustrated with my indecisiveness. But in a hall of answers with unlimited time, how does one know what to resolve first? Should I start with the most irksome or the least intriguing, should I get the biggest questions out of the path or should I slowly build up to the most groundbreaking of inquisitions?
Sighing in frustration, I gnash at my teeth and turn on heel, working my way back towards the shadowed corner of the room where I know a pile of documents have already been hand-selected by Metatron, primary sources from assorted points of time in my uncle's life, his notes, his journal entries, his letters – they all apparently have a connection to what I'd been interested in, and, supposedly, she threw in a couple that she had no clue how to translate in hopes that I may discern something she could not.
Sliding down the wall and landing in a comfortable, crumpled heap on the floor with the stack of sources carefully locked away in boxes and bags, I peek inside each of the compartments, searching for something remotely interesting.
Initially, all are boring and plain, containing trite and uninteresting things such as Bryon's sightings of Raffe and his warnings to the nearby towns and Chazas, a love letter or two to Audiat, more than one study on the natural hierarchy of species – basically what he'd told me that night at the Nephilim Temple's hallway in a nutshell – and a mildly interesting field report on a man that'd been found stumbling about in the middle of the desert without a soul.
However, one catches my eye, its contents bringing a fire of curiosity to rage at my heart.
Cautiously, I pull the translation slip from the baggy, thankful that this particular document happens to be one of the few that Metatron has come around to translating into English, and, by the looks of it, Spanish and Italian.
Such an event must be recorded into my notes, even if I have so very little evidence to prove that what I saw lying in the wreckage were true and not a trick of the smoke and ash clogging up my lungs and rusting the metal skull cap (correct translation, perhaps idiom of the time?).
The incinerated village of the little boy Hugo had many secrets to tell, I realized, as soon as I traveled back to the land swept with hellfire to plunder her secrets. Of a few things I am certain; Gabriel is not in control of the fire, nor any angels. In fact, with new, standing evidence I dare not sacrifice to other eyes, I find myself questioning whether or not the Messenger truly thinks for himself anymore, or whether he be a puppet, a dead body suspended by strings and kept dancing by some merciless overlord.
Another thing the ashes have revealed is that Black Wolf (literally 'Canine of Dark Days') was here. Whether it was while the fire blazed around him and his feet left prints in the ash long after his disappearance or whether he simply padded through the grey plain he'd created, I have no inkling. This leads me to believe that, although the sun was high above in the sky, the wolf the boy has affectionately titled "Scruffy" (literally 'tufty fur') was placed there by White Wolf (literally 'Canine of Pale Moon') to help make up for the loss of his brother, a man that died with unfinished business at the hands of White Wolf's enemy.
The third and final thing that I noticed has chilled me to the bone. Even now, as I write, my hand quivers, for not everything died in the burning wrath of the hellfire. Something had escaped. As I scanned the grey dust, each one of my footprints stirring ash, I awoke another creature curled up in the dust, dormant, as if awaiting the moment to wake up and rise from the soot.
Covered in ash, buried completely without so much as a rib out of place, it rose like the dead coming to life again, shedding grey dust as it did so. I hid behind a hill, watching with only my top crescents (idiom?) as it shook out its neck. I know not what it looked like specifically, for the dust consumed its figure and hid its luster. I only know that first, it craned its neck around like a stork, evidently searching for the Black Wolf that'd scorched the land so utterly, before taking to the sky with a trail of grey in its wake. As it rose above, an eclipse shadowed the sky, leading me to believe that perhaps, the Angel of Clockwork is not the one in control of the time travel – or perhaps she is, and that this one is only a pupil.
Or perhaps I have seen something completely new, the likes of which we could've only dreamed before?
However, my intuition leads me to believe otherwise. A glance in its eyes, sincere reader, and you would've been able to tell, too.
I believe I have seen the _?_.
Frustrated, I stare at the question mark, as if it will go away. What had he seen? Why had Hugo's town been torched? Why does Bryon write so cryptically, as if his time is not rife, but rather, as if his life is hanging on a thread and the wrong move shall bring about his destruction?
Curiously, I slip the translation back into the baggy and pull out the original document, viewing it through a layer of plastic. I frown at the last word, seeing as it makes no more sense than anything else.
The script is in some foreign language with a foreign splay of neatly printed characters written in red ink. Initially, I'd thought that perhaps it's some bizarre transcript in the modern day world, something like Arabian or a lesser known Chinese vocabulary, but both the unfamiliar swirl and loop of what I assume are words and the reminder that this was jotted down after Bryon first met Hugo – literally ages ago – tie a brick to my heart and allow it to sink.
I scrunch my eyes at that last word in frustration.
Perhaps he has more written about the strange word.
Perhaps they're other notes.
If not…
I glance towards the bulge of the phone in my pocket, weighing my options, but quickly feeling a stab of guilt shaft through my gut. Admittedly, the option of calling my uncle seems awfully tempting – but, according to Hugo, the one who'd first informed me of Bryon's moment of downtime, he really, truly needs the rest. Supposedly, the transition of man to beast burdens his need for calorie-consumption by a tenfold, and, while beast, he can scoop entire schools of fish out of the water with his massive maw, he requires the same intake of energy into a little, not-as-earthshaking body.
Then again…
This creature, the one that Black Wolf had attempted to murder by incinerating a village full of people with hellfire and still failed, seems much to like the monster creeping around these halls for my liking. If I don't discover a translated file with his research on the creature somewhere, though I may not like it, I might have to contact Bryon and rip him from his precious slumber.
Delving into the piles once more, it doesn't take me long to discover a wrinkly leather-bound book hiding between two journals, one upon the aurora borealis and the other upon the many colors of the breaking dawn, both of which sound more boring than watching paint dry. Unfortunately, though, other than the gruesome sketch of a large, almost crocodile-like creature on the front page, I can't make out much else in the small, only halfway filled out book.
"If you're looking for Hugo, I'm not him," yawns an exhausted voice on the other end of the phone.
"What?" I wonder, furrowing my brow as I run my thumb over the crackling leather. "You know, never mind. I'm sorry, Bryon, but… I need your help."
"Of course, Penryn." Banishing his sleepiness with a final yawn, Bryon gathers himself, the scuffling noises granting me a vivid picture of Bryon pushing up from whatever makeshift bed he'd been slumbering across and rubbing at his eyes, feet stomping on the ground. "What's wrong?"
"I really am sorry, Bryon," I repeat, my guilt growing only more heavy in my stomach with each of his words. "I thought you'd be awake – I can let you go back to sleep if you need to. I can probably take this to someone else…" Gnawing on my lip, I flip through a few of the crackly pages dubiously.
"Penryn, I'm not getting back to sleep now," Bryon chuckles warmly, "and I'm glad you came to me. Besides, if you let me go now, I'd drive myself crazy wondering what was wrong. Does it have anything to do with the infamous monster creeping around those halls?"
I tilt my head to one side. "Maybe…? I don't know, that's why I need you."
"Well, don't keep me in suspense." His laughter is almost abnormally merry, considering the graveness of what I have in my hands and the danger he'd been facing mere hours ago – but perhaps that's his secret to greatness, laughing and smiling at the approaching danger.
"I've been going through the archives here at the aerie," I explain. "You know, trying to fill in all the gaps in my supernatural education. I found something – something of yours – and I think that it might be what's lurking around here. I can't read the text and Metatron doesn't have a translation. I thought that, since you wrote it, you'd be able to help me out."
"I'll do my best." Bryon sounds bemused. "What is this primary source that raptures you so?"
"Again, can't read it, but it's got this, like, tribal sketch on the front cover." I turn it over in my hands, searching for clues. "Looks like a journal of some sort? Once upon a time, it was probably bound in green leather, too. Now it's faded."
"Does the sketch look like a lizard-horse with wings?" Bryon inquires, sounding like he already knows the answer.
"Um." I stare at the sketch. "I'd say more crocodile-goat."
"Hmm." Bryon sounds displeased. "For your sake, I sincerely hope that's not what's crawling around your halls – give me a second to translate, and then I'll tell you what I know about the creature inscribed instead of reading out every little word."
"Okay." I adjust the phone against my face. "Take all the time in the world."
"I believe it's pronounced in the English language like Tee-ah-b'la. Spelled maybe T-Y-A-B-apostrophe-L-A. Tyab'la."
"Tee-ah-bah-la," I repeat.
"Tee-ah-b'la," Bryon corrects. "It's just a fraction of a fraction of a second of pause. There is no 'bah' sound in there. This creature most certainly isn't a sheep of any kind."
"What is the Tee-ah-bla, anyway?" I wonder.
"Close," Bryon approves. "The Tyab'la is a menacing monster I've had the displeasure of running into multiple times in my lifetime, and each time it's been less pleasant than the last. Tyab'la literally means 'Gorgeous terror' when translated to English – I can't really say if it's beautiful or not, I haven't had the displeasure of seeing its full form, but it most certainly is terrible."
"This Tyab'la –" I run my finger over the etch, tracing the fangs jutting menacingly from the roof of its mouth. "Is it what you saw in the ashes of Hugo's village?"
Bryon pauses. "To this day," he admits, words lethargic, hesitant, "I'm not quite sure what it was, stirring in the coals. I sincerely hope it was the Tyab'la, because, otherwise, there's another flying, havoc-wreaking monster on the loose. I also sincerely hope that you're very much in the wrong about the creature creeping around those halls – even so, never, ever travel alone, it attacks those flying solo, those without witnesses."
"Yeah, about that…" I open the book and flip absently through the pages, rubbing my thumb along the frayed edges of the papers. "When Lucius inspected the corpse of Bezaliel, he said that… that Bezaliel's soul had gone missing. That it'd been eaten. Is that something the Tyab'la would do? Something it does? And… there is only one Tyab'la, right? Not an entire herd, like the cherubs?"
"Only one Tyab'la, just like there is only one God." Bryon seems to be growing jaded, as if the conversation is pouring salt into wounds long healed. "I did not want this to be the Tyab'la, but I have no reason to doubt Lucius's diagnosis and every reason to fear that your suspicions might be true. Yes, the Tyab'la does leech off of souls. A soul is one of the most nutritious things to eat in this universe, however, very few digestive tracks can handle that much energy, thus leading to the practice of eating meat back in the days of evolution, as the meat still holds reminisces of the soul clinging to it. The Tyab'la is the only creature in my knowledge that feeds off of undiluted soul mojo. It makes sense that it would dwell in a place so densely populated with creatures like the she-aerie." He swears lightly under his breath, his words foreign and unfamiliar.
"Is there any way to kill it?" My hands clench around the phone. "Or get rid of it? Something?"
"With luck, I'll be able to drive it off." Bryon grunts, as if shoving himself upright or swinging his feet over the edge of a bed. "There is no killing the Tyab'la – any attempts to will only make it deadlier, and the last thing we need is a pissed off Tyab'la. Until I get there, keep everything under tight watch. Make sure that word doesn't slip out about the Tyab'la – few know of it, but those that do will spread panic and mistrust. Never, ever be alone at any time – have that grouchy archangel be useful and sleep on Audiat's couch. Don't be afraid of the shadows – it doesn't need those to kill you. The shadows are, in fact, your best option of evading it."
"Alright." My heart begins to thump. "Okay. Got it. So you're headed this way? What about the Horse?"
"It'll follow me." Bryon groans. "I'll have to keep it at bay while juggling this whole issue. But don't you worry, I'll take care of it, it'll just be twice as exhausting. Keep out of Lucius's way, the demon's a bloodhound when it comes to little hunts like this, he's fascinated by them and will do anything to receive answers. Stay safe, you."
"Oh, Bryon?" I shuffle through the piles Metatron had granted me and select one last thing from the mess, unzipping the pouch and carefully handling the book in even worse shape. "There's another journal, almost exactly alike the Tyab'la one. The title looks kinda the same, but it's orangey, and there's a picture of golden flame on the front. What's it about."
Bryon's voice is hard. "Put that book back where it came from, Penryn."
Curiously, I flip open to the first page, and the first thing I'm greeted by is a beautiful drawing of White and Black Wolf circling, and an eerie silhouette of something that doesn't look human in the middle. The strange word for Tyab'la looms beneath it, and overhead the word on the cover.
"Bryon, it has the wolf yin-yang, and the Tyab'la –"
"Put. It. Away."
I frown deeply, troubled by the bitter ice slicing in each of his words. What could be troubling him? Why is he acting in such a stoic manner?
"But, Bryon –"
"I TOLD YOU TO PUT IT AWAY!" Bryon roars through the phone.
In shock, I yank the phone back away from my ear, fingers slipping from the glossy case and allowing it to fly across the room, slamming into a file cabinet with a resounding bong.
I stare at the phone, cupping a hand against my ear to nurture the hearing difficulties I'd almost certainly just inherited from Bryon's outburst. My heart stampedes brashly in my chest, its erratic rhythm throbbing in my ears like a deep, threatening drumbeat. As I stare without comprehension at the phone lying on the ground, mustering courage to face whatever emotion had forced collected, gregarious Bryon to such points of malice, I notice something that accelerates my stuttering heart back to its rapid beating.
The door I'd had opened ever so slightly, the one with only a crack to allow the conversations of those dwelling outside the walls for comfort, now splays ajar, swung back all the way on its hinges, and no murmurs sound from the Library.
I'm alone.
And something had pushed that door open.
Frantically, I scrabble towards the phone, picking it up with a terrified gasp.
"I think it's in here with me, Bryon," I hiss into the phone, cutting off anything he might've been saying.
"Stay calm." My uncle's voice sharpens in a matter of seconds into a precise, calm, fatherly sort of tone. "Take deep, even breaths. What do you see? What's going on? Put yourself in a corner, they're easy to defend until someone comes along."
"Already done," I whisper, eyes darting about fearfully. "Um, the closed door is now not closed. Other than that, there's not much – but I can feel it – there's something in this room, Bryon. Something other than me. What should I do? Is it the Tyab'la?"
"I don't know." Bryon's voice is grim. "Did you notice the door being open before you unzipped the pouch of the second book?"
My heart skips a beat. "I don't think so. Is that why…?"
"Burn that book, Penryn." Bryon's voice is icy cold. "Listen to me. Scoop that book up into your arms, don't read a word of it, not a single word. You grab that book and then you run. You don't stop running until you're in a heavily populated area of the aerie. And then you find Hugo and you burn that book. Do you understand me, Penryn?"
"I –" Snatching the book from its placement atop the packet it'd been zipped carefully up in. "Yes. Yes. I must burn the book."
"I'm heading your way." Bryon's voice adapts a touch of softness. "Good luck."
Hanging up without uttering anything finalizing like a farewell, I tuck the cursed book beneath an arm and stand up warily, glancing all around, awaiting a crocodile donkey to confront me from one angle. However, that most definitely isn't what I see.
Belle sits upon a filing cabinet, her head cocked to one side and her eyes narrowed critiquingly. In front of her scuffles a familiar white build, bent over a filing cabinet where he had been invisible to my eye. Initially, I believe that Lucius is as blind to my presence as I had been to his, but after a moment, he stands as well, swiveling to face me with a cocked eyebrow.
"Do you need me to dispose of the book, or are you going to hop to it?" Beneath a pair of sleek sunglasses, I can feel his glare growing more and more judgmental. "Between you and I, any piece of knowledge that can terrify the Dragon King is knowledge the world can't quite handle."
"Did you overhear everything?" I wonder, blushing, thinking about how stupid I must've sounded.
"No, not quite." Lucius bends back over the files, the yellow light filtering through his pale hair like golden fingers. "I heard your uncle having a scare attack and did what I do best. This little monster had the same idea, it seems. I do believe he'd have you destroy that book now; just because I chased the beastie off doesn't mean it won't return." His glasses gleam steely black. "If you want, I'll get rid of it here and now."
I narrow my eyes. "How do I know you'll not just take it from me?"
"The Tyab'la is some nasty business to get wrapped up in." Lucius sounds dead serious. "I will get dirty and roll around in the muck to get answers, but I'm not willing to sacrifice myself for a fun fact. If the Dragon King's scared out of his wits of something in his own research, I don't want anything to do with it." Accosting quickly, he holds out a hand towards me, clearly indicating that he'll take the book from my hands. "Shall we?"
Still distrustful, I glare him down evilly. "I don't trust you; I think you'd say anything to get to the bottom of a case."
"Good for you." Lucius sticks his hands back into his pockets. "You don't have to give it to me. You have my good wishes, Young. Do remember my offer as you are attacked alone in the hallways carrying Tyab'la bait. Good day."
"Fine." Sighing exasperatedly, I shove the book towards him. "Burn it, then."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't." Lucius turns his nose up to the book quite literally. "After all, I might steal the cursed artifact and exploit its legendary power. I couldn't possibly do what Bryon asked you to; no way in hell. Did I mention I'm the Prince of Hell? And that I can summon things like fire? But never mind that, I might steal it!"
"I get it." I slam the book against him, shivering at the lack of body heat my fingers are met with. "Burn it. Make sure that the Tyab'la doesn't get it."
Frigid hands wrapping around mine, his long, spidery fingers gingerly take the tome from my hands, prying off my reluctant grip to hold it in front of his face for a few tense seconds, his expression grim as he studies the title.
"Lucius?" I whisper, growing nervous with his extended silence.
Balancing the book's weight in one hand, Lucius snaps his fingers. The reflection of the flames dance in Lucius's sunglasses until there's nothing more than a pile of ashes on the floor for him to stare at.
"Lucifer." Ariel's lip perks slightly – she can't completely deny its pleas to curl in disgust. "How… pleasant for you to arrive early for our meeting."
"Ariel." The demon snorts, his once angelic face flaring with hatred. "There is nothing pleasant about it. No need to lie about such things."
"There's something wrong when the woman is more chivalrous than the man." She lifts her head, eyes lingering to the small party of the demons in his wake. "Where is your second son? I do not see him."
Lucifer's fists ball up tighter. "Who knows where that bastard is. For his sake, he'd better stay gone."
At least the archangel's hand is warm, Paige decides, glancing as subtly as she can towards the towering Raffe as he leads her gently through the Library.
His eyes intelligently search the nooks and crannies of the Library, all the places Paige'd expect Penryn to be reclined in and reading a good book. Maybe this place has more in the Percy Jackson series – her heart leaps with joy at the thought of it. Maybe Penryn will even help her find the book, and they'll curl up together, reading side by side, and let time pass.
However, as Paige catches sight of a familiar pale figure ghosting through the aisles, she whimpers slightly and cowers behind the angel, all dreams of Penryn forgotten.
The demon seems rather brisk in his manner, and doesn't truly seem to take notice of Paige or Raffe, despite the archangel's primal growling rumble. Beneath his arm is tucked an ancient looking book with bedraggled pages and a tattered cover – though not particularly eye-catching, there's something about the book that fascinates Paige, causing her to be unable to look away from it and the flames etched onto the peeling leather.
Evidently, one of the assistant librarians feels at least similarly as she stalks angrily up to the demon, her mouth drawn out into a straight line of poorly quelled irritation.
"That book is from the Archives," she snaps, jabbing a finger towards the thing he holds underneath his arm. "You have no right to be taking it."
The demon seems exasperated. "It's a library. The whole purpose of a library is to borrow books."
"And many of these books we lend!" the assistant librarian snarls, scowling darkly at the demon. "In fact, you can take any one of these books back to your apartment so long as they don't come from the Archives section! Especially not that one! Give that back now, or I shall take it by force!"
"Oh, why do I even bother?" the demon sighs, slipping his sunglasses down his nose and glaring at the librarian.
With an earsplitting shriek, the angel falls down to the floor, clawing at her eyes and slapping at the ground with her wings much like a fish may squirm over the land, kicking out incoherently. Even though Paige remains petrified by the she-angel's spasms, her eyes filling with tears as she begins to froth at the mouth, the demon takes no notice in his handiwork, stepping neatly over the flailing angel and continuing towards Raffe and her.
"Raffe," Paige whispers, hiding behind him as the demon draws closer.
The archangel squeezes her hand in reassurance as the demon continues towards them.
Stepping into his path, Raffe challenges the monster, his lips turned up into a fearsome snarl. "What the hell was that for?" the archangel rumbles, his feathers bristling in fury.
The demon attempts to sidestep. Raffe intercepts again. Once more, the demon attempts to avoid conflict, and, once again, Raffe negates his efforts.
The demon's chilling sobriety sends a shiver down Paige's spine – perhaps the archangel can't see the rage festering beneath the cold skin of the demon, perhaps its concealments of its blind fury slip a veil over his eyes, but Paige can see past the sunglasses and see the heat rising, much more powerful than anything Raffe could ever muster, so powerful it's moving.
"Get out of the way," the demon orders placidly.
Raffe's hand moves to the hilt of his sword. "Where is Penryn?"
"Fleeing the monsters under her bed." One of the demon's snowy eyebrows cocks. "Much like you. I have an appointment that I must attend. Move or I shall make you move."
"I'm not moving," Raffe growls, stepping so close to Lucius that they are only separated by an arm's length. Their breaths mingle in the air.
"Oh?" His words are cold and maintain an almost delicate tone to them, causing Paige to imagine a frozen spiderweb. "May I have the delicacy to ask why not?"
"Because you haven't given me my answers." Raffe's back muscles tense, as if preparing for a fight. "Tell me what I need to hear and I'll let you pass."
The demon chuckles, his laughter devoid of emotion. "You're cute, Raphael. Now, get out of my way."
"I'm not going to."
The demon's chuckle this time is real – as if he's amused in Raffe's actions, as if he's caught the scent of stupidity, as if he's discovered a string he can pull to make the entire sweater unravel. It's him who steps nearer, making it so that their faces are almost awkwardly close together.
"Allow me to enlighten you on how these things stand." The demon's lips perk in a slow, cruel smile, a grin just barely lifting the corners of his mouth, yet more terribly beatific than anything else in the world. "I need only slide these sunglasses down my nose and you'll be writhing over the ground. Should you make an attempt for that sword or should you continue to block my path, I will not hesitate to do so. With that considered, get out of my way."
"If you're so all powerful…" Raffe cocks his head to one side, still confident for reasons beyond Paige's comprehension. "Why haven't you done it already?"
"Because a grieving Wrath of God, though terrible, is better than an insane, grieving Wrath of God." Lucius tilts back his head, a black tongue swiping his lips and turning them grey. "Trust me. I know."
"Grieving?" A confused note enters Raffe's voice. "I'm not grieving anything."
Lucius's face goes clean of emotion besides from that coy smile playing at his lips. "Not grieving, you say? Well, if you don't get out of my way…" The demon leans forward, his lips baring into a snarl, his words short, gruff, and furious. "You. Will. Start."
The next chapter will be fun. Much, much fun.
Oh, and, remember when I said Bryon knew something he wasn't telling Penryn?
Fun.
POLL: Lucius is tricky, sly, and rotten. Just as Bryon had said, his quest for knowledge can, will, and has taken him anywhere. But if Bryon was terrified to have Penryn even so much as know what this mysterious book was about, might've Lucius bitten off more than he can chew with this? And what out of Bryon's own research could frighten the dragon so?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh