Archon(74)

“If you yourself are the Archon, when the time comes to use the Grail, remember that it cannot be handled without consequences.”

“And what about Israfel?”

Angela’s heart ached, almost to the point where she could cry. Seeing her beautiful angel so clearly, she’d wanted him more than ever, and more than ever, the possibility seemed nonexistent. The danger was obvious. If she didn’t ignore this corner of her heart, the thirst would eventually kill her on its own. Israfel took up her world; he always had. Only for a few days had someone stood before or beside him in the space of her affections. Kim had enough pleasure to offer, enough beauty and charm, but could a relationship built on danger last? Besides, if Angela proved to be nothing more than what so many had suspected—insane—then he’d kill her.

How alone she was. Unable to trust even her own feelings.

“Israfel . . .” Tileaf sighed deeply. “As I said, he vanished into the highest dimensions of Heaven. Raziel’s death affected him powerfully. And no one has seen him since that fateful day. He may no longer even be alive.”

That couldn’t be. It simply could not. Besides, Mikel had said he was alive.

Though she could have been lying from the start.

“How can I find him? I was hoping that maybe I could summon him to Earth like other angels, but—”

“No.” The Fae’s voice hardened. “He is a Supernal. They are angels. But they are also on a much higher plane of existence. Israfel is not the type of being who entertains demands.”

“Then what do I do?”

“You can hope. It is what we’ve all been doing since Raziel died and took most of what little hope remained with him . . .”

“And that’s all?”

Tileaf lifted her hand, thrusting with it as if she were pushing Angela away. They began to separate with the same slow intensity with which they’d first come together, and a grim knowledge entered into Angela’s awareness. This was the last time she and Tileaf would speak on equal terms. The next instance they’d encounter each other, Angela would have to be the Archon to survive it, and she would have to keep her promise and kill someone who otherwise wished her dead.

“Yes,” Tileaf said, sounding more resigned than ever. “That’s all.”





Twenty-two



His voice is unlike any other. A music that torments the soul.



—UNKNOWN AUTHOR, A Collection of Angelic Lore





Were you there in the Garden of Shadows?



Were you near when the Father took wing?



Did you sigh when the starlight outpoured us?



When the silver bright water could sing . . .





Angela rolled over onto her side, sighing, trying to wake up, though her brain was crawling from sleep with infuriating sluggishness. Someone was singing to her, such a haunting, incredible song. She recognized this voice—she’d heard this melody before . . .

Have you drunk from a river of amber?



Or eaten the nectar of dreams,



Where thoughts linger determining eons,



And time stretches apart at the seams . . .





Who? Who was this?

The voice was like pure birdsong and the gentle ring of a chime, yet with all the force of a rushing tidal wave. Angela moaned out loud, half awake, turning aside in a mound of what felt like dead leaves. They crackled underneath her, her back hit an iron-hard root—and her eyes popped open, revealing the unearthly decay of Tileaf’s grotto.

She sat up, groggy and unusually tired.

Kim lay beside her, his arm flopped across her skirt. He looked so different, fast asleep like this. Innocent, his hair thrown back from his face and neck, completely unlike the cold, professional persona he projected, his lips gently parting as he breathed and mumbled what sounded like Latin. Troy, though, was gone, perhaps because dawn was almost upon them. She’d either escaped deep into the undergrowth or had left entirely, unwilling to watch over the two people she hated most as they curled beside each other.

Luckily for Kim, she also must have had an aversion to murdering anyone unconscious. Jinn must have had the morality peculiar to hunters. Twisted morals, but still, morals.

Thump.

What was that?

Angela turned around, her heart pounding.

A branch had fallen from Tileaf’s tree into the dirt. She too was gone, silent, back to dying alone—just as she seemed to prefer it.

Now the coffin of spirits awaits us.



Now the sliver of life it escapes us . . .





“Hello?” Angela stood up and crunched through the leaves, stepping over another large root. She was still wobbly and tired and her head felt foggy. It was hard to see, though that was thankfully improving. The trees caged the entire grotto in darkness, but between their black limbs the slate-colored sky was appearing in the early morning light. And it was an uncommonly pallid and dirty light. Clouds scudded by with the wind, their tufts boiling with a menace peculiar to Luz, threatening another deadly storm. Strangely enough, it had only been last night when Angela, Nina, and Kim—when they’d survived lightning bolts, and rain that could cut into your skin. “Hello?” she whispered.