“But not for forever.”
Forty-three
All angels can regret or forgive. Very few do so gracefully.
—VENERABLE MAXIMINA, Lost Writings and Annotations
Kim found Naamah near the tree line.
She cradled Stephanie as they lay together on the ground, her wings shivering, her dark eyes scratched into pools of blood. The pain was affecting her strength, leaving her weak and gasping, and when his shoes stopped next to her head, there was no etheric blast, no flick of her fingerblades. She merely flinched.
The black rain that had welcomed Lucifel had scorched through the demon’s remaining feathers like fire. Their leftovers twisted from her wing skin, half melted. Much of her neck and chest was redder than usual, coppery with burns.
The tattoo on her neck had faded to a faint tracery.
She could have hidden and kept herself from suffering like this. But it was obvious that Stephanie’s deranged moaning had called her, and Naamah had dragged herself toward the sound of her daughter, wrapping what was left of her wings around their suffering.
A sharp sob cracked through the silence. Stephanie—crying out in her pitiful, fetuslike position. She hadn’t stopped shaking since she went insane.
Kim could only stare, empty inside even as he looked at her.
Feelings lingered, despite his disgust. That must have been why he’d risked hovering over them.
“You ignorant . . . half-breed,” Naamah said.
She must have recognized him by the sound of his footsteps. His breaths.
“All your promises and oaths of loyalty . . . for what?” She spat at his feet. “The Book unopened—Israfel returned . . . you should have died in your mother’s womb. Better that than ruin my happiness.”
He stooped down and whispered in her ear. “Should I have taken a wild guess about the Archon then? Yes, Israfel is gone. Back to the upper Realms.”
“And . . . the Book?” Her fingers twitched pathetically.
“Here. He won’t carry baggage that can’t help him. Not when it’s officially Angela’s job to open it.”
But Kim knew there was more to it than that.
Israfel must have tried to open Sophia—and failed. Otherwise, why would he have allowed his sister to try for herself? They were polar opposites, and yet frighteningly alike, using anyone and everyone to accomplish their goals without batting a proverbial eyelash, taking a maddening amusement in whatever obstacles they encountered, like toddlers solving riddles.
How true it was that mortals were toys for the gods.
Even if those gods had only the illusion of being divine.
Kim glanced back at Angela sleeping nearly comatose next to the ruins of Tileaf’s tree, her scarred legs and arms splayed pitifully around her body. Israfel had done his part to keep her alive, seeming to consider it some sort of favor on his brother’s behalf without even saying so, leaving with his disfigured Thrones after blessing Kim with advice.
It’s only a matter of time until she puts you in your place.
Whether Israfel had been referring to Angela or Lucifel was beside the point. All Kim had cared about was that the Supernal’s last concern seemed to be killing him. Israfel was like the legends said, true to his word, confident that the Black Prince would eventually murder what he didn’t feel like touching. Like anyone else with delusions of godhood, he wouldn’t soil his hands with a half-breed’s unnatural blood—especially when that could displease the Archon and sway her from his influence. For a Supernal like Israfel, the insult was an ironic one. Killing Kim was actually quite beneath him. And Angela’s feelings wouldn’t allow it.
The stalemate continued.
“Now . . .” Naamah’s voice was soft with her pain. “Let me at least die in peace.”
“You won’t return to Lucifel?”
She laughed at the sarcasm in his voice. “Return? No, priest. There is no return for me. I’ve failed her, and she is well aware of it.” Naamah groaned, her wings flapping into snow, their metal struts creaking with her despair, insistent on moving when she could not be moved. “In her, there is no longer any pity or sympathy. Demons have some. She has none. She,” Naamah said, sighing painfully, “feels nothing.”
Her voice trailed off into soft whispers.
“But even so,” Kim said. “I’m going to let the blackbird out of her cage.”
Naamah didn’t respond, maybe no longer even heard. Instead she squeezed Stephanie one last time, whispering what sounded like a demonic prayer.
“Mother,” Stephanie whispered back, sobbing gently. “Did I do well? Are you happy?”
She could have been lucid for that brief moment, but Kim suspected otherwise.