Archon (12 page)

Then, things could go wrong. Like Kim had said.
Very, very wrong
.

“Give me a chance,” Nina begged.

The shadows grew around them. Glass rattled. Sharp wind began to bluster against the hidden windowpanes.

Then the rain started, roaring.

“Give me a chance . . .”

Eleven

I loved him, but he never turned to me again.

I ached for him, and he laughed at my humanity.

This desire would be my certain destruction.

—
U
NKNOWN AUTHOR,
A Collection of Angelic Lore

T
he doors to the church slammed open with a
bang
.

Brendan stood at the threshold, his teeth gritted and his hair sopping, lightning splitting through the sky behind him. He’d discarded his coat somewhere, leaving his black clothes to soak through with the torrential rain. Israfel peered at him through sporadic waves of droplets, safe and dry on the large chair at the head of the altar. Rakir and Nunkir had been resting at his feet, sleeping side by side. Now their wings tensed, and Rakir sat up, his chiseled features masking over with distaste. Nunkir remained lying down, her eyes open, watchful.

“This is unexpected,” Israfel said, hoping the message would get across.

It didn’t.

“She’s playing with fire,” Brendan said, not bothering to mention who. “And she’s going to burn. And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

He stormed inside the church, forgetting to shut the doors, letting the wind enter and toy with loose strands of Israfel’s hair. Israfel tucked them behind his ears and returned to his lyre, plucking at the strings, timing the rhythm to the relentless pounding in his head. Tonight he’d been free of the usual cramps and nausea, but the headaches had been searing, torturous. The Father’s blood had stopped the worst of the pain, instead leaving him with the world tilting, and his speech slurring at odd intervals. Still, though, he could feel the fluttering movements of the unborn chick inside him, threatening to abort itself at any second in the quickest, bloodiest way possible. Obviously, he wasn’t numb enough.

“What is that?” Brendan stopped short of the altar stairs, ignoring Rakir’s new, threatening stance. Nunkir remained by Israfel’s side. Moisture glistened on her feathers, shellacking them with liquid crystal. “What is that smell?”

Israfel returned to his lyre. “What do you need, Brendan? We were about to retire for the night.”

The human’s mouth slackened, and he stared at Israfel. Hungry. “It’s like blood,” he said, whispering. “And flowers.”

He glanced at Rakir with a sudden wariness, like the scent was a trap.

But the angel kept still, examining him, finally turning to Israfel.

They were in complete agreement.

Brendan’s possession had made him more beautiful than ever—even if he didn’t know it—his broad shoulders and soft face hardened beneath the weight of starvation and thirst. The poor thing wouldn’t last much longer at this rate. He’d fallen to Rakir’s curiosity for hours the other day, every breath he’d remembered to take simply draining more of his scant life. If anything, the fear the Throne caused acted like a stimulant, making him taste that much more addictive. Yet out of the three angels at his disposal, Brendan continually submitted to the one who cared for him least, maybe as a penance for his perceived sins, or perhaps because he simply welcomed the pain.

Either way it had made an excellent amusement for the night.

“Go ahead,” Brendan said, almost hopeful. “Get it over with.”

Rakir licked his lips but turned away, disgusted again.

Brendan inched closer to Israfel, no longer disguising the longing on his face. Nunkir sat up now, her braids dangling from her head like silver chains, their weight swinging beneath the rain. Her jealousy, frosty even under the best of circumstances, always made the night interesting, and she looked to Israfel much as her brother had done, her face mean with the longing to snap Brendan’s neck once and for all.

Israfel gestured for submission, cutting off any more thoughts of revenge.

“You are perfect,” Brendan said, his lips trembling with the words. “All of you. Just like in the pictures, the paintings . . . but”—he regarded Rakir again, careful—“these angels are different from you—I can sense it.”

Rakir closed his eyes, opened them, battling with his opposing lust and anger. He beseeched Israfel one more time, and much like his sister, received no permission to end his torment.

“Rakir and Nunkir,” Israfel said, “have been my guardians since their days as chicks. Although what you see isn’t even close to their true form. It’s merely a derivative, made to be more pleasing to the eye.”

And they were exceedingly pleasing, especially considering their rank and station. Though most Thrones were cursed with deformities of one kind or another, Rakir and his sister had been created with a flaw that merely made them more appealing—almost complete silence. Israfel could settle for no less than the best of the litter, deliberately choosing a brother and sister whose bond made them ten times more lethal. If pressed, he would admit Rakir was probably his favorite. Strong, but also abnormally tall and lean, his face was cut with perfect angles, his green eyes painfully endearing.

“Patience,” he mouthed to him gently.

Rakir’s wing bones began to tremor, but he remained obedient, gazing into nothing, barely repressed.

“Now tell me why you’re here,” Israfel repeated, setting down his instrument, swinging his legs so that they hung over the chair rail. “Especially after I told you I wished to be alone. You mentioned another human . . .”

Brendan fixated on the scales covering Israfel’s feet and at last tempted fate, clasping him by the ankles, imprisoning him with his hands. Nunkir watched with murder behind her eyes, her lips pressing together so tightly they began to turn blue. “I need your help.” His face paled slightly. “There’s a witch in Luz and I want her burned at the stake.”

“A witch?” Israfel observed the storm through the holes near the ceiling, watching black tufts appear and disappear amid a haze of water. “Whatever does that mean?”

“She’s threatened to kill me, and I believe her. Stephanie pretends to be a normal woman, but in reality she’s capable of anything.”

“She was your lover?”

“Not just mine.” Brendan kissed the side of Israfel’s foot, begging the worst. “She was also with another man in my seminarian group. He’s untouchable. But I’d be doing everyone a favor getting rid of her and that damned sorority. She thought my words today were just a show, for spite, but finally she’s going to suffer like she’s made other people suffer.”

Israfel allowed the quiet to enfold them, listening to Rakir’s occasional sigh of protest as Brendan continued his caresses. The Throne’s fingers twitched, straining to hurt.

“Your kind,” Israfel finally said, “aren’t so different from us, in the end. I had a sister, you know. And she treated me much like your lover treated you. Cruelly and indifferently.”

“What did you do?” Brendan said, catching his breath as Rakir turned back to him.

Israfel swung his legs to the ground and stood from his chair, reeling for a second as the world spun. Colorful specks dotted his vision, and he sensed himself beginning to dream, slipping away into the sweet drunkenness of the drug. He blinked, and Raziel seemed to appear in front of him, so beautiful and perfect that he put Rakir to shame, his figure all blood-red feathers, blue eyes, and gentleness. “I sent her to Hell,” Israfel said, sighing out his illusion. “And she’s been there ever since, chained, rotting. Chained and rotting just like me. How much I hated her—
hate
her—for what she did.”

“And what did she do?” Brendan tugged at the buttons closing off his shirt. Rakir whimpered at Israfel, pleading now, but his salvation wasn’t about to appear just yet. The Throne panted, desperate to restrain himself. “Something that deserved Hell, I’m sure.”

“She took from me what I loved most—” Israfel said, feeling Raziel’s hand cup his cheek.

No. It was only Nunkir, concerned.

“—and violated him right in front of me. And she laughed the entire time, like it was a game to take my heart and crush it underfoot.
My heart
. I never thought she’d dare . . .”

“What was her name?” Brendan absently touched his own skin, playing with his neck and collarbone. With or without his sister, Rakir would murder him, or at least that much was obvious from the way his lower jaw shivered. If the obsession growing inside of Brendan didn’t destroy him from the inside out, then in a day or so, the Throne would rip him in half.

Israfel’s lips trembled. “Lucifel.”

Brendan froze, his eyes widening, too shocked to remember his caution anymore. “He’s—a woman . . . but that can’t be—”

“Yes, a woman.”

Lucifel was a woman. One who had forced her subjects to call her “Prince” out of envy. But she wasn’t—and couldn’t be—like Israfel no matter how she dressed or spoke or cut her feathered hair. Because Israfel was a natural enigma, his true self known to a very privileged few, most of whom had never lived to tell about it. They’d exchanged an evening of intimacy for their lives. “A woman who gave birth to two abominations that resemble her, and with the very person I loved most.”

“Then, she’s the Ruin.” Brendan sounded triumphant. “You said she’s in Hell. But we believe that she’s coming to Earth for revenge. The public aren’t allowed to read the official prophecies; they’re told about the red hair she possesses so that they send qualifying children to the Academy.”

Nunkir was shaking, so deeply had Lucifel’s name upset her. Yes, it brought back terrible memories for them all. Israfel knelt down, dizzy, but took her head against his lap, letting her hear the hope moving inside of his slender stomach.

She relaxed, though her concern for Rakir continued. Her eyes had narrowed to green slits, and still, Brendan continued to gaze openly at Israfel, teasing her brother until it bordered on cruelty. The crimson stripes flaring on Rakir’s wrists and hands said that he was aroused, but the feeling was far from deliberate. Red stripes of rage blushed across his cheekbones as well.

“The Archon,” Israfel’s words began to slur again, “whom you ignorantly call the Ruin is not Lucifel.”

Brendan was too enamored to be aware of his company anymore. He barely noticed Rakir step nearer to him, the angel’s tall shadow darkening their faces. “Well, thank God.”

“The Father has nothing to do with it.” He couldn’t even if he tried.

Israfel had seen to
that
.

He slipped away from Nunkir, stroking her shoulders and hair. Slowly, he approached her twin, distracting Rakir with a soft touch until the Throne’s eyes closed once more, and he relaxed into the tenderness of Israfel’s gesture, grateful. He had certainly suffered enough. Israfel took his hand and brought him nearer to Brendan. “Come,” he said, hot with the fire of the Father’s blood in his veins.

Brendan groaned, turning to escape this sudden temptation.

Israfel lifted a finger, and the human froze, invisible chains of ether locking him into place.

“Poor thing,” Israfel said, clutching Rakir close so that they stood tightly together. “I should reward you for your self-control.”

Nunkir smiled at Brendan, gloating over his lesson for the day.

It was one she’d learned long ago: possessiveness had its price.

“Please,” Brendan said, his slightly muscled arms already shaking underneath the tension. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You mean punishing your ex-girlfriend?” Israfel said, teasing. He pulled Rakir down for a kiss.

Brendan gasped. “God . . .”

“Oh, but he would punish
you
.”

“Israfel,” Brendan pushed, hardly understanding the situation in which he was entangling himself, “come with me tomorrow, to the All Saints’ Day ceremony. Stephanie will be at the ceremony with the other members of the sorority. They have to attend in order to keep up appearances. Once you show up, the priests will listen to you—they’ll have to—and then she’ll be officially tried as a witch and”—his voice lowered, softer—“burned.”

Israfel broke away from the honey of Rakir’s mouth. “How barbaric.”

“It’s justice,” Brendan said, lunging forward violently. “It’s what she deserves.”

“But what will I receive in return for such an immense favor?” Israfel said, slipping off his coat, savoring the breeze. His slim, androgynous lines seemed to make Brendan’s mouth water. “What could you possibly give me in exchange for that kind of generosity?”

Brendan looked from him to Rakir, possibly imagining all sorts of wonders that could take place between them. And as they waited, Rakir’s wings rustling as they folded tightly against his back, Brendan decided on the choice of fools and hedonists. “My soul.”

Nunkir’s smile was perhaps even deadlier than before.

“If you need it, I’ll sign a contract—”

“I am no demon,” Israfel whispered. “The desire is enough.”

“Then—it’s official?” Brendan’s voice was low and full of manhood, but his choices were anything but. He wanted to be a slave, for all Israfel’s remaining eons—and there would be very many if all went according to plan—merely to satiate his appetite for another human’s destruction. Oh, the possibilities. The endless entertainment of forcing him into one body after the next, using him until he perished only to begin the process anew. “You will have me? Because I want”—he stopped hiding the lust in his voice—“to be yours. I think I’ve been dreaming of you since I entered the seminary. My angel.”