Archon(3)
When he opened them again, Brendan was gone.
Or at least his mind had left him, swallowed inside Israfel’s own dreams. As a human, Brendan couldn’t understand an angel’s song, or the significance of the words and images Israfel conjured. But he could feel that significance, and it had drawn him into a fog of illusions. Sights and sounds that would steer his soul until the day he died.
Israfel reached the climax of the final refrain.
Brendan collapsed into the couch, moaning like he’d been mortally injured. He struggled to sit up but failed, sinking deeper into the cushions. Glazed eyes, a shivering body, a weakening constitution. He was the image of a blossoming enchantment, all his strength dissolved by that final release.
“What . . . did you do to me?” Brendan spoke with increasing difficulty. “I thought you were an—”
A small door swung open.
The singing had alerted Israfel’s Thrones, Rakir and Nunkir, and their suspicious glares met Brendan so that he froze instantly. The black-haired Rakir emerged first, the angel’s thin wings arched high above the floor, his figure tall and menacing. His twin, Nunkir, glided behind like the light to her brother’s darkness, her long, silver hair tied in matching braids. Both angels radiated deadly protectiveness, and Brendan sucked in a sharp gasp as Nunkir leaned in close enough to touch him, the tiny jewels on her wings chinking together.
Israfel slid a finger beneath Brendan’s chin, turning the young man’s ashen face back to the light. Humans were so weak. Yet Raziel had chosen to become one of them—a red-haired girl Israfel could snap in two like a twig. And he might never understand why or for what reason.
Thunder boomed through the building.
The storm whipped more rain against the windows. All the candles burned out but one.
“I’ve heard that humans can be fascinating,” Israfel said.
Rakir and Nunkir moved to either side of the loveseat, their wings surrounding Brendan in a feathered prison.
Yes, he might never understand. But—
“Now we can see what the fuss is all about.”
One
That this Person will meet with these angels, there can be no doubt. But meetings take place both in the imagination and reality.
—ST. IMWALD, LETTERS TO THE HOLY FATHER
“That’s an incredible painting. The lines, the textures, the brushstrokes. One would swear you’ve been doing this for fifty years. Can I ask how much you’re willing to sell it for? I could give you one thousand dollars—”
“It’s not for sale.” Angela stood from her bench, nodding politely at the group of appraisers to her right. One of them—a stout, middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit—had paused in front of her darker work: an abstract of acrylic on canvas, the figure portrayed in its center more a conglomeration of shadows and smoke than a person. A bone pale face had been sketched amid the gray, its crimson eyes intended to shock the viewer as much as they had shocked Angela. It had been easier than she’d thought to evoke sensations of sickliness and dread through art, coming down to little more than mixing the right colors and matching them to the images already in her head. Really, it was more practice than talent. She’d painted the darker angel so many times, most of the features outlined themselves by now. “In fact, none of them are for sale. I just couldn’t bring myself to choose, even if I had to part with a single work.”
“A true shame,” the stout man said, turning from her to another picture.
This time it was the more beautiful angel of the two. Not her best representation, but the watercolors had a strange way of conveying the soft loveliness in the angel’s wings, his eyes.
“And to think,” he was saying, “that such skills will be hidden away at this school. The Academy is a little too protective of you blood heads.” The man snorted, adjusting his tie. “Not all of us believe the Vatican prophecy, you know. The world is sorely lacking in common sense nowadays. Every time I step foot in this city, I feel like I’ve been thrown back to the Middle Ages.”
Angela pretended not to hear, greeting another visitor to her exhibit with an outstretched hand. Surprisingly enough, the young woman took it, giving her a firm shake.
“Well, I wish you luck,” the appraiser said, his shadow uncovering one of her brightest paintings as he and his group meandered off to the left.
The young woman looked like she was pushing sixteen, but her blouse matched Angela’s, its embroidered tree symbol circled by thirteen stars—the mark of a college freshman. She strolled over to the uncovered picture immediately, one hand settled on her hip as she bent down, inspecting, judging. The second her finger stretched toward a raised band of paint, Angela pushed her hand aside, shaking her head. “You really shouldn’t touch them. It can cause damage.”