Neverwhere(102)

That was until he felt the cold point of a sharp knife placed against his throat, and he heard Mr. Croup’s oily voice whispering in his ear. “I already killed you once today,” it was saying. “What does it take to teach some people?”



Richard was manacled and chained between a pair of iron pillars when Mr. Croup returned, prodding the marquis de Carabas with his knife. The angel looked at the marquis, with disappointment on its face, then, gently, it shook its beautiful head. “You told me he was dead,” it said.

“He is,” said Mr. Vandemar.

“He was,” corrected Mr. Croup.

The angel’s voice was a fraction less gentle and less caring. “I will not be lied to,” it said.

“We don’t lie,” said Mr. Croup, affronted.

“Do,” said Mr. Vandemar.

Mr. Croup ran a grimy hand through his filthy orange hair, in exasperation. “Indeed we do. But not this time.”

The pain in Richard’s hand showed no indication of subsiding. “How can you behave like this?” he asked, angrily. “You’re an angel.”

“What did I tell you, Richard?” asked the marquis, drily.

Richard thought. “You said, Lucifer was an angel.”

Islington smiled superciliously. “Lucifer?” it said. “Lucifer was an idiot. It wound up lord and master of nothing at all.”

The marquis grinned. “And you wound up lord and master of two thugs and a roomful of candles?”

The angel licked its lips. “They told me it was my punishment for Atlantis. I told them there was nothing more I could have done. The whole affair was . . . ” it paused, as if it were hunting for the correct word. And then it said, with regret, “Unfortunate.”

“But millions of people were killed,” said Door.

Islington clasped its hands in front of its chest, as if it were posing for a Christmas card. “These things happen,” it explained, reasonably.

“Of course they do,” said the marquis, mildly, the irony implicit in his words, not in his voice. “Cities sink every day. And you had nothing to do with it?”

It was as if the lid had been pulled off something dark and writhing: a place of derangement and fury and utter viciousness; and, in a time of scary things, it was the most frightening thing Richard had seen. The angel’s serene beauty cracked; its eyes flashed; and it screamed at them, crazy-scary and uncontrolled, utterly certain in its righteousness, “They deserved it.”

There was a moment of silence. And then the angel lowered its head, and sighed, and raised its head, and said, very quietly and with deep regret, “Just one of those things.” Then it pointed to the marquis. “Chain him up,” it said.

Croup and Vandemar fastened manacles around the marquis’s wrists, and chained the manacles securely to the pillars beside Richard. The angel had turned its attention back to Door. It walked over to her, reached out its hand, placed it beneath her pointed chin, and raised her head, to stare into her eyes. “Your family,” it said, gently. “You come from a very unusual family. Quite remarkable.”

“Then why did you have us killed?”

“Not all of you,” it said. Richard thought it was talking about Door, but then it said, “There was always the possibility that you might not have . . . worked out as well as you did.” It released her chin and stroked her face with long, white fingers, and it said, “Your family can open doors. They can create doors where there were no doors. They can unlock doors that are locked. Open doors that were never meant to be opened.” It ran its fingers down her neck, gently, as if it were caressing her, then closed its hand on the key about her neck. “When I was sentenced here, they gave me the door to my prison. And they took the key to the door, and put it down here too. An exquisite form of torture.” It tugged, gently, on the chain, pulling it out from under Door’s layers of silk and cotton and lace, revealing the silver key; and then it ran its fingers over the key, as if it were exploring her secret places.

Richard knew, then. “The Black Friars were keeping the key safe from you,” he said.

Islington let go of the key. Door was chained up beside the door made of black flint and tarnished silver. The angel walked to it, and placed a hand on it, white against the blackness of the door. “From me,” agreed Islington. “A key. A door. An opener of the door. There must be the three, you see: a particularly refined sort of joke. The idea being that when they decided I had earned forgiveness and my freedom, they would send me an opener, and give me the key. I just decided to take matters into my own hands, and will be leaving a little early.”