Cadence of truth, p.67
Cadence of Truth, page 67
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to know they’re unfixable while all this is still going on,” I whisper. “I can see better this way.”
“You look like crap,” says Noah, too relaxed for someone who’s been fighting all night. “He’ll underestimate you, for sure.”
“Aren’t you exhausted yet? You’ve been fighting for hours.”
“Not me.” He charges at two demons who broke from their pack and made a beeline for Amethyst.
“I need you to get me closer,” I say.
“Can’t you fight, you barmy old bastard?” Caleb shouts. “Is that why you’re hiding in your bubble?”
“Why is Caleb prancing about taunting Paul?” I ask.
“Distraction?” Amethyst suggests. “Paul hasn’t seen you yet. Though I think that’s about to change.”
Paul’s eyes find me, and a broad smile uncovers his teeth. I’ve never seen ice in eyes so brown. A fleece headband mops up the blood from his head wound, and he’s ditched the robe for an ancient military uniform. The dark jacket and light trousers make him look infuriatingly noble, like a corrupted Disney prince.
I project a whisper into his ear. “I’d wave a white flag, but Cascade only comes in black. And very dirty brown.” I grimace at the state of my uniform. “It’s just as well they don’t let me live in a world where angels wear white.”
His smile is fixed. “Welcome back, Violet.”
“If I come to you willingly now, this all stops? You’ll release Hazy?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll leave my family alone?”
“Yes.”
“And call off your war?”
“Alas, it is no longer my war. The demons want blood, and they are owed.”
“But you’ll call off your own armies?”
He lays his hand where his heart should be. “My word is my bond.”
I don’t believe a word of it, but this is the only way. My quillarms are already stuffed into my invisible bum-bag. I hold out my wrists. “I’m all yours.”
I deliberately stretch my arms enough to make my sleeves rise a little, and I don’t miss his gasp when he sees the lion tattoo on my wrist. When Zach asked Oskar if he knew the Serpent Girl had the power to tame a lion when he made his mark on me, he said, “Of course. I was hopeful you’d realise it was a charm when I could have left her with a scar.” Zach calls it Oskar’s white flag. At least I got the one in Zach’s line who knows what jewellery is.
“Everything falls into place,” Fane whispers. “You bear the mark of my lion. It is time for your sentencing.”
I shuffle forward, still pretending I can’t see a damn thing. He grabs me so violently, I jump. No acting skills required.
“How are your eyes and ears?” he asks, running his thumb over the tattoo on my wrist.
“The hearing is improving, but I still can’t see.”
“Turn and put your hands behind your back.”
I do as he says and feel the cuffs go on. He pulls them tight. Of course, they don’t spin like they should; they just click into place. Why the hell didn’t he test them? Or is this what Lucifer meant when he said the fake cuffs would play along? “Are you trying to cut off my circulation?”
His hand locks onto my wrists. “Violet Penhaligon. I hereby sentence you to a lifetime as my true wife.”
“Does the bride get to give a speech?” I ask.
“You shall do your duty. You shall honour me. You shall belong to me in all the ways a woman can belong to a man.”
I gag when I feel him shudder behind me. Hazy shifts at our feet, and Paul moves us slightly away from her.
“You’re my uncle,” I say, grateful he can’t see my face. “That’s monumentally gross, and not at all likely to happen.”
“Your sentencing is complete, Violet. You cannot deny me, but you should know I’m a practitioner of asceticism. My vessel is pure.”
“You’re absolutely riddled with demons.”
“Demons have their uses. I have no need of a wife for my bed. I shall remain pure and celibate, but you will serve your king when he returns.”
“Are you talking about… Who are you… the Lion?” I squeak. He only smiles, and I stagger on. “So, what is your true wife? You have a hundred wives.”
“Not anymore. Consider the gift I left for you at Augarten an early wedding present.”
“What gift?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Do you know what I have regretted all these years?”
“Your happy-go-lucky approach to humanity?”
“I regret that for several centuries, there were no bodies. I hadn’t anticipated the joy of leaving a stack of bodies behind.”
Bile swirls in the pit of my stomach, rising into my throat. “You left your wives for me to find?”
“A true work of art.”
I force myself to breathe. “You used my consent… my consent to accept your gifts to… to justify the murder of your wives? Murder isn’t art.”
“One can learn a wealth about people by taking them apart piece by piece.”
I shake my head. “No. You can learn everything about yourself. You don’t know anything about people because you’re always looking at the wrong things.”
“You’re too optimistic about humanity, Violet.”
“And you’ve lived too many lifetimes to judge.”
“I never did thank you properly for your blood. It changed my focus entirely when I discovered you carry the blood of Sean Morrigan. And imagine again my delight when you told me Albert was related to Zachariel. I had not thought such combinations were possible. It is a shame I never had the opportunity to use the tribade on Albert… a shame he had to die.”
“You’d never just kill him.” I let my voice break.
“I never just kill anyone, my dear.” He wraps his arm around my chest from behind, bringing our bodies closer, and I clasp my hands together, pulling them away from him. “It is almost time for my speech.”
The north field is a mess of feather wings and leather wings, of littered robes and snapping jaws.
“Not another monologue,” I complain.
His laughter is callous and empty. “I shall never tire of you, Violet.” His warm breath washes across my ear, making me shiver with revulsion. I let the plague distract me by showing me his face. Even that’s better than being forced to feel only his breath and his inappropriate touching. “It is time for truth. I think you know what that means.”
“Veritas,” I whisper.
The battle is frozen. Our forces still. Paul’s forces stall; his demons pace. It’s as if by speaking the word, the world has stopped to listen.
There has already been so much bloodshed tonight. All because of one man. Why didn’t Elijah speak up sooner? And why did that small ancient boy talk all this into being? As someone who doesn’t know how to keep my mouth shut, I’m surprisingly unsympathetic.
Paul’s eyes soften, and a deep amber mist floats around his face. I don’t even have time to ask the plague what the mist is when he says, “Since I first saw it as a child, it has been my only truth. I dedicated my life to understanding it. Did you know my very first name means life?”
“Vit.” I hope to cause him unease, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my use of his name at all. “Life is death. I can smell it on you.”
“It is why we are here. Spirit, vitality—it surges here, and I cannot wait to possess it, to impose my will.”
“Your will? You live by a book written by a child and a pack of wolves two thousand years ago.”
He draws his knife. “So do you.”
I try not to react to the sudden appearance of his knife. “But I don’t call it free will like you do. And I fight it. But you… you think you’re the king in Veritas? The king who lives by the book and rules by consent? That’s where it comes from, isn’t it? Your obsession with consent?”
“I have made a good game of it,” he says, tapping his blade on my shoulder. “I’ve found ways to gain the consent I crave.”
“But you’re not a king,” I remind him.
“I am the king’s keeper.” When he sheathes his knife, I let out a relieve breath. “Do you know what happens when a bishop has the ear of a king, Violet? Do you understand how his whispers work as gospel? How they become divine?”
“You’re delusional.”
“Veritas says a bloodborn soldier will kill his own father in battle. I sent that soldier after his father. I sent him after Albert.”
“I know who Albert’s son is. You think I don’t? And I know he’s banished.”
“At my command. And it was my command that brought him back. He would never say no to me. I have Albert’s teeth.”
My stomach drops, whimpers catching in my throat at the thought of Oskar betraying us. He wouldn’t, would he?
There’s no way I can ask when Albert was killed without giving away that he was alive an hour ago. As far as Paul knows, Albert died months ago.
Was Oskar’s remorse an act?
My brain gets hooked on the idea. That he wheedled his way back into Albert’s life and affections, that he waited for us all to leave before taking out his revenge on the man who left him alone to die. Please don’t let it be true.
“Did you know vampires can take on certain bloodborn qualities when they reach such an age as Albert did?” he asks.
He doesn’t know Albert’s a bloodborn.
He doesn’t know.
I try not to show relief, and my voice comes out juddery. “No, I didn’t know that.”
He turns me to face him, his eyes disturbed and lustful, his mouth wet with spit. “With age comes the ability to fly and, in some cases, to overcome river lust. But it also confers the power to be brought back. When all this is over, I’ll bring him back for you. I won’t deny you any plaything you desire, Violet, as long as you know you belong to me.”
I shake my head. “It was already done. There was already a bloodborn soldier who killed his father in battle long ago. He became the Bloodborn King. Oskar is too late. And you’re awfully hazy on history for an old white man.”
“It cannot be just any bloodborn soldier who becomes the Bloodborn King. It must be the one who bestows his mark upon the Serpent Girl.”
His eyes leave mine and settle on something behind my shoulder. He gasps, then laughs.
Hands still cuffed behind my back, I call on the plague to look over my shoulder, to follow Paul’s gaze.
In a yellow robe with one red sleeve, his face hidden deep beneath his hood, is Oskar. He wades through the mess, kicking empty robes aside.
I try to keep my breathing even, but it’s impossible, fluttering in shallow puffs that have no hope of filling my lungs. Before Oskar even speaks, another voice comes from nowhere.
It’s OB, yelling his head off. “You will die tonight, Fane.” At first, I think he’s projecting his voice like Eden did because he’s not supposed to be here. But there he is, wearing Cascade armour minus the sleeves—OB isn’t a fan of sleeves—squaring up to two apostles. “It was written long ago, and I will write it again.”
Paul stiffens, then smiles again at Oskar who pulls down his hood and whips off his mask and isn’t Oskar at all. Albert tips his head to the side, grin rabid. I sag against Paul.
He doesn’t notice. “How is this possible?”
“My son is not such a fool as you,” Albert calls out. “He knew he was not the Bloodborn King.”
Paul yanks hard on my wrist, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. “She bears his mark.”
Albert laughs. “She bears my mark. Did you forget to whom I was born? To whom Oskar was born?”
“She is bound to me,” Paul yells.
“She is bound to me,” Albert whispers, and I hear it only because the plague lets me.
Paul is tenser than before, and it only takes a second to figure out why: Kite has arrived with Oskar.
“You betrayed me,” Paul bellows.
Paul shoots a bolt of crimson fire, making our non-icy ice cube shudder. The fire hits the ground inches from Oskar’s feet. Paul’s body vibrates when he pulls me closer.
I draw in a harsh breath when he squeezes my ribs. He wears hatred in his eyes and on every line of his face. Something hits the cube and knocks us sideways. Paul seems to realise his anger is causing his protection to waver, and his body relaxes, a wave of calm settling over him, reaching beyond his body to mine.
“You betrayed us all,” Oskar fires back, his grey eyes reflecting a thousand shades of sadness. “You tricked me. You said the pain would end… that the disfigurements I escaped were because you saved me. You didn’t save me.”
“I created you.”
“You created a monster. You made us all monsters.”
“You are a traitor,” an angry voice bellows. I was so focused on Paul and Oskar, I missed the arrival of Asgaut Scarth. “All those years of service… of sacrifice, and it ends like this?”
“I made my choice, General,” Oskar says.
Scarth’s voice is bitter but soft. “You made your choice long ago, your grace.”
“Enough. You betray me to come to the girl’s rescue?” Paul barks. “Is that it? If so, you are too late.” He grabs my shoulder and twists my body so Oskar can see the cuffs. “She is sentenced to be my wife. She will be my wife.”
Behind Oskar, several blue robed elders appear. Albert drops to his knees and presses his hands together, muttering to a faraway god. In the midst of battle, the Bloodborn King prays for peace. His words hold water, and do not bear deceit. My initial translation was almost as wrong as Paul’s.
“You have spent centuries framing your story,” Halvard shouts, and my throat struggles to overcome a sob when I realise none of his companions can possibly be Conall or Soren. “None of us stopped you as we should have. You have reframed morality to suit yourself. You have surrounded yourself with loyal monsters. Surely, they all know you are nothing without them. You certainly know it, don’t you, my lord? And what is more, as long as they stand by you, they will be nothing.”
Paul laughs. “Your order is finished. The Isangrim belong to me now.”
A rumble of mirthless laughter shuttles along the line of elders.
“Those are not Isangrim.” Halvard spits on the ground. “The Isangrim are scholars and healers. We are warriors with conscience. What you have is an abomination. Tell me, how many tongues have you cut from these wolves of yours?”
“They were disobedient.”
“The Isangrim are not disobedient.”
“They are disloyal,” Paul bellows. “You were disloyal to me.”
“We owe loyalty only to our order. You made disobedient vaewolves. The Isangrim is a sacred order. We cannot be chosen by a fascist in a hat.”
Paul holds his free hand out, palm up. “I did it all wrong, I admit it. Despite this careful army I have moulded for myself, I acknowledge that the apostles have no real fight with the angels.” Paul’s voice booms on. “But the demons do.”
“He bred you to sacrifice tonight,” I whisper, projecting it into the ears of his apostles.
The ground beneath my feet rumbles and shakes, and I prime myself for flight just in case. The earth cracks open ahead of me, and lizard-like shadows claw their way through the gaps, shaking soil from their bodies as they emerge.
Paul has already created the bite Raguel warned us about, and the shadows continue to pull themselves through the split earth with a shudder.
Paul yells louder still. “Trapped and enslaved by the angels for millennia, my brothers and sisters have as much reason to fight as I do.”
“You were given your world to keep you safe from the light,” I whisper, but Paul’s hand is already over my mouth.
“You think they believe in the lies of angels?”
I bite his hand. “You’re an angel.”
Thin, leathery wings unfurl from his body. “I have not been an angel for a long time.”
The shadows crouch to the ground, becoming more solid, more real with each passing second. And just as suddenly as Lilith’s children arrive, a night-splintering blast announces the arrival of the apocalypse.
A thread of something powerfully electric runs through my body from my boots to my fingertips to the roots of my hair. Can all of us feel it? I feel bound to my family in ways I never knew about, like we’re part of a pattern that scatters and reforms, like a shifting constellation. I feel big.
Light, so blinding and white that the entire colour spectrum flashes around the field, sends limbs flailing to cover eyes. Four horses, ethereal and fluid, solidify and gallop to a stop beneath their fearsome riders. I take a moment to appreciate them, awestruck by the kind of magic paintings are made of. The archangels are in full armour, their wings high and tucked. That’s our heritage up there: mine and Albert’s.
Elijah’s gold armour matches the halo illuminating his dark skin, casting highlights onto his taut face. Now completely solid, his horse blends into the night, making Elijah look like he’s floating in mid-air. “Repent,” he whispers. “Repent and be done with this.”
“I do not repent,” Paul says, his body jerking as the demons inside him revolt at Jophiel’s presence. Life is death. To be set aside for those he can catch, for the hunter is the cause of the demon’s run.
“I ask a final time,” says Elijah. “Repent.” Tears form beneath his eyes and though he’s not near me, when his tears fall, they sting my skin like hard rain.
Michael slides from Duke’s back, just as the other archangels arrive, including Raguel, who marches forward looking twisted and glorious. Paul tightens his grip on me.
“Paul Ellison, known other as the Bishop, Finian Fairfax, Fane,” Raguel begins, pausing to utter the next name with relish, “Vit. You have been sentenced to death by order of Cascade and the terms defined in the Astra Codex.”
“You do not—”
Raguel holds up his hand. “It is not necessary for you to submit a plea.”
Paul laughs. “I have no intention of doing so. I don’t recognise your authority.”
Raguel laughs back, flashing his teeth. “It is not necessary for you to recognise it. It is so.”
