Archon(106)

“It seems I’ll have to tolerate you,” Sophia said to him, “for now. But I would have you remember one thing, Israfel. I alone know the true definition of a prison and pain. Never again try to beat me at a game of words.”

He turned to her. The Book appeared to be growing taller, her eyes vacant and fathomless, patterns of indescribable intricacy flowing across her skin.

“And why is that?” he said, laughing at the unexpected vision.

“Because I contain them all.”





Thirty-one



In Her heart, Darkness lies. In Her soul, the dormant Flies.



—CARDINAL DEMIAN YATES, Translations of the Prophecy





Angela awakened alone.

She was lying in a sitting room, its space dotted with velvet upholstered couches and all sorts of clutter, everything from musical instruments to fancy end tables covered in strange bottles and hair clips. The candle near the window had melted down to a sorry stump, its wax dribbled and malformed. But no matter what light there might be, it would have been impossible to put a dent in this kind of shadow. The sky outside was horrid, black and purple with clouds that resembled grotesque bubbles. Nearby, towers already dilapidated with age or neglect seemed surreal, vaporous in a greenish tinge hazing the atmosphere. The city looked sick to its stomach, sitting in a stillness that suggested death.

“God.” Angela clapped a hand across her forehead. She felt nauseated, still tasting the unearthly dryness of Israfel’s nectar.

She’d never had anything like it before. In comparison, wine and beer were too sweet, and fruit juice was too bitter, like those contradictions had been distilled into a liquid and tinted with a gold that reminded her of Kim’s eyes. Even when her mind numbed and her heart raced with the terrible pleasure, it had been hard not to picture him there, staring at her like she was a whore or a sinner, judging her to Hell while she kissed Israfel’s soft mouth and touched him in all the places she’d dreamed. It turned her stomach even worse than the hangover—the idea of more guilt, that she’d betrayed him—especially after he’d confused her so badly.

He wanted her on the Throne of Hell? What kind of solution was that?

I’m far from perfect, but I’m not the Devil.

She sat up and the Grail kissed her skin, its surface unusually warm. Angela unbuttoned her blouse and looked down at the Eye, touching the emerald iris and deep, dark pupil. Sophia had known that she’d taken it from Troy. Yet Sophia had known because she wasn’t just a Revenant—and Angela doubted how true that really was anymore—but because she was the Book. A thing or a monster in the shape of a person, who was also enough of a mystery that those who tried opening her risked going insane.

It was all coming back to her, harsh and clear.

Angela had used that as her justification for drinking herself stupid.

Now that the facts presented themselves again, it simply hurt.

Where is she?

Where were they? Israfel’s room was empty except for piles of garbage and treasure. Feathers rested in mounds of white near the walls, and the room smelled of sweetness, stickiness, and that unusual perfume of his: flowers and salt. Jewels and barrettes had been carelessly tossed onto tables or fallen to the floor.

Angela rocked onto her knees, steadying herself, and grabbed a silver hair clip resting near her toes. The gems set inside the metal were strange, hollow and red, but with a sheen of blue and black to their facets. She must have been holding some kind of crystal from somewhere up in Heaven, growing in a place that could blow away the imaginations of every priest in Luz.

It was official now. Heaven was a real, material place.

That meant Hell was too, and just like them, Israfel was less a ghost or a spirit than a solid, fleshy, beautiful creature. Her lifetime’s dream had finally touched, kissed, and danced with her. He bled like she bled, and he spoke like she spoke. From the very start, she’d never thought about how Troy and Israfel knew her language, simply preferring not to care, but she was certain their superiority over humanity had a lot to do with it. Remembering the way Israfel’s lips curled around words, it didn’t seem far-fetched to assume he was speaking his own language, and Angela was always hearing hers. In a sense, every syllable was its own song.

Yes, Israfel and Troy and even Tileaf were flesh and blood, but they could manipulate your soul as easily as blowing on smoke.

Angela put a hand over her chest, shuddering a little.

The Eye had gone from warm to unusually hot. In seconds it was almost scalding her.

“What the hell—” She quickly swung the chain over her neck, keeping the stone far away from her skin. Its surface glistened and she held it aloft, peering carefully at its shininess. There seemed to be something moving across the pupil.