From angels to ashes, p.9
From Angels to Ashes, page 9
“She was your mom,” Syron realized. “What happened to her?”
“The same thing that happens to all the angels here. The God sent his watchmen after her, and before long she was just another pile of ash.” He swallowed hard and looked down at his hands from where he’d grabbed fistfuls of the blanket. He unclenched them slowly and stared at the wall, as if he were forcing himself to keep talking. “I had heard enough by that point to know the lotus flowers weren’t a crazy idea. A lot of the scientists were doing experiments with them, trying to figure out how they were involved with angels being able to come here. If you open your third eye, they had a theory you could use them to see into other worlds. If you were strong enough, that is. I figured I’d be able to see her world easier than a stranger would, you know?
“I locked myself away for a long time. I did see…things. Sparks of something in empty space. But I never got anywhere, and by the time I realized what the flowers had done, it was too late.” He picked up one of the journals next to Syron and opened it to a bookmarked page before handing it to her. She accepted, looking down at the circled passage.
The temporals and sahiit ate the flowers without thought. Almost immediately, the temporals reported “splitting headaches” and “vulgar bowel movements.” The symptoms lasted two days, during which I chose to monitor the sahiit more closely. Their bodies underwent physical changes: lightening of hair and skin, eye-color deviation, lighter markings. Their mental states too, became troubling. Most sahiit rambled incoherently. Worth noting, however, was a female sahiit of undetermined age, who took to writing “Watcher” on the walls. When prompted, she only smiled. Needless to say, the sahiit were incapable of transitioning back into society . . . …History keep the rest.
Leon moved to sit beside her on the bed, reading over her shoulder. When she let the journal sag, he brushed his fingers through his hair and leaned back, the edge of his shirt coming up just enough to reveal the point of his hip bone.
“I stopped before my mind was affected, but nothing could be done for my appearance. When I came out, no one recognized me. It was like every proof I had that she existed at all, even me, was just…gone.”
His mom, Astrophe, watched from her perch on the desk as Syron put her hand on his. She waited for him to recoil in disgust—she was another doomed angel, after all. But he squeezed it instead.
“That’s why you wanted to steal me away?”
“I meant what I said, Sy. If I had any idea—”
“You’re doing more than I could ever ask for. If it weren’t for you and Yira, I wouldn’t even know I was in danger here.”
If she had ever imagined herself to be right here with him, watching his eyes flick down to her lips, she had pushed it down so far, she had forgotten it had been a thought at all. Her breath caught. He was so close, all she needed to do was lean forward…
Leon’s back went rigid. She followed his gaze to where Will’s jacket lay in a pile on the floor, forgotten, and felt his hand slide out from under hers. He cleared his throat.
“There’s something you should know. That dream you had in Calais’s room…did it feel like you were there? I mean, as if you were physically in someone else’s body?”
The question was so out of place that she pulled away. Whatever she had been thinking the second before vanished as surely as though it had never happened.
“There was a gash,” Syron said, “on his stomach. I woke up thinking I would bleed out because I fell asleep and forgot to keep pressure on it.”
Leon didn’t meet her eyes as he cracked the spine of another journal and flipped to the end. Their fingers brushed when he handed it to her, but it only sparked the anxiety coiling in her stomach.
The paper of translations lay between them, but she didn’t reach for it. Halfway down the page in the same tight, elegant script, an indented passage caught her eye. She tilted the journal toward the light, watching the shadow melt away.
…Our experiments also point to the existence of the onocalcum. Some angels have experienced a beautiful and unpredictable tethering of the minds, in regard to their third-eye capabilities. This occurrence is believed to be caused by an extreme emotional provocation that links the two parties by altering the dream state of the angel, causing them to experience the life of another. Be aware, these dreams are disrupted from time and are not in this moment believed to be linked by familiarity or a shared history…
The words started to blur together. She blinked, and the ghost of pain sliced across her stomach, fresh and hot. She pushed the journal away with pinpricks of glass falling over her back and arms. She stumbled to her feet as the rush of adrenaline flooded her veins like ice and begged her to run, but the knowledge of what would happen if she did kept her frozen in place. She had experienced it all with him, but the scars weren’t hers to bear. Excitement and fear rose to bile in the back of her throat. It could mean only one thing.
Will is in Evangentine.
7
Déjà Vu
The stolen jacket flapped around him like a flock of crazed birds pecking at his neck and back. He wrapped it tighter around him, but if it did anything for the cold, he didn’t notice.
The God’s City stretched for miles in either direction, protected from the rest of the world by the giant bronze wall that surrounded it. Storefronts glowing with neon signs offered enough light to see the deserted streets, but not enough to even touch the base of the spire tower that reached up past the wall and seemed to touch the sky.
He craned his neck to the circle of glass that made up the walls of the top floor, ignoring the sting of the wind against his cheeks. The light was still on, but this time a dark silhouette stood motionless. Whether the God faced away from him or toward him, he couldn’t tell.
A shiver raced up his spine, and he shrank back into the protection of the overhanging trees, looking back the way he had come. The berries he had collected along the way had ravaged his stomach, and the water from the stream he’d found had tasted sweet and chalky. He rubbed the palms of his hands down his cheeks, gave himself a light slap, and did his best to pick his way down the steep hill. The world tilted dangerously, and he paused more than once, squeezing his eyes shut, before continuing.
It had been pure luck the watchmen hadn’t been able to find him again. More than likely, they hadn’t suspected he would be stupid enough to come back. Not that he’d had a choice. It had been clear from the moment he had finally stopped to rest and found himself too weak to even set a snare that he wouldn’t make it out of Evangentine. If he had any sense, it would have been clear from the beginning. There was only one truth he was sure of: he couldn’t run anymore.
By the time he reached the wall, his breath came in shallow rasps that left him lightheaded and nauseated. He wasn’t at the gate, not yet, but two watchmen stepped out from the swath of shadow next to where he knew the giant metal hinges would be. Their blades glinted dangerously in the moon’s glow as they neared him.
He swallowed back his fear. Whatever happened next, at least it would be on his terms. The weight of the hammer made his arm shake, but he willed himself to grip it tighter and took another clumsy step forward.
“What do we have here?” The one on the left gave him an ugly, unnatural smile that was too wide for his face. The second one spit off to the side and nudged the first, the armor clanking together, and gestured to the hammer.
They could have been twins. All the watchmen had the same huge, muscular bodies, bald heads, and lidded eyes. Even without the inverted triangle stamped on their foreheads, they could’ve been swapped for each other, and no one would be the wiser. But he tried anyway.
“You’re Alistair and Fennec. The two watchmen the God would prefer to stay out of the way. If you let me in, I’m sure he’ll make it worth your while.”
The one on the right, Fennec, snorted. “You know our names, so what? There’s no open call for traders, and it’s past curfew.” He glanced at Alistair. “You’re lucky we’re not in a very giving mood. Get you and your lousy metal out of my sight before Lady here changes her mind.” He twirled his sword expertly and slipped it back into his baldric.
Alistair grimaced at Fennec, the skin scrunching together where his eyebrows should be, and brought his weapon higher. “Who’s to say,” he said in a drawl, “that we can’t have a little fun? It’s been awhile since we’ve had anyone dance for us.”
“With good reason, so I hear.” His voice cracked coming out. He was glad he couldn’t see the flash of malice that surely crossed Alistair’s face, because as soon as he spoke, Fennec grabbed the bronze plate on Alistair’s shoulder to hold him in place. Alistair jerked from his grasp and whirled forward. There was just enough time to see the glint of metal before the butt of the sword slammed into him.
His vision went black, but the pain was still there. It pulsed like an aura, overshadowing the tiny rocks that needled into the side of his face as he slid and the cheap material of the jacket scraping across the ground.
Alistair snapped an order at Fennec before he was hauled up by the armpits. He blinked, and one of their faces swam across his vision, but he couldn’t tell which.
“Give me one reason,” the watchman said, “why I shouldn’t cut you down here and now.”
He surprised even himself by laughing. The watchman at his back let him go, and he fell in a heap on the ground. Every part of him was screaming. He heard them whispering as his laughter turned to violent coughs that squeezed at his chest and tried to suffocate him. He smiled through it, even when his mouth tasted like iron.
When the bout ended, he sucked in a ragged breath. Beneath him, little black dots were painted like gothic art on the stones. He rolled to his side.
“One reason?” he rasped. He pulled aside the jacket and lifted the hem of his shirt. The cool air brushed against his scar. It had healed, but badly. “Angels aren’t meant to be murdered by your hands.”
Their faces melted into shock. One of them—it had to be Fennec—looked as if he were about to be sick.
Alistair muttered a curse and attempted to tuck his sword away. He missed twice before giving up and throwing it to the side. It clattered against the ground as he turned his attention back to the massive gate.
“Open it up!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “We found the angel!”
Syron didn’t move for a long time. She lay silently, listening to Leon’s soft snores on the floor next to her and staring at the ceiling. Finally, when the throbbing of her head dulled to an ache, she kicked off the blankets.
She’d stacked the journals with the rest of the books on the dresser the night before. They hadn’t bothered to turn off the lamp, and she avoided looking at them as she maneuvered around Leon’s sprawled body and dug through the top drawer. Half of her wanted to wake him, but the other half thought better of it. There was no way to tell how early or late it was, and besides, whatever had happened between them the night before made her want to bury her head in her hands and forget it ever happened.
But it had led to another dream. Another instance of the onocalcum.
She shook her head warily. Will, because it had been him, she was sure now, had gone back. He had seen no other option. The way the watchmen had looked at him after he said he was an angel…
She glanced back to make sure Leon was still asleep and turned away, hastily pulling off her shirt and slipping the dress over her head. When she was sure she was covered, she slipped the pants off too and pulled up the tight shorts sewn into the fabric.
She slipped into the hall. Everything was quiet—the faction was still asleep. She angled her feet as she walked to make as little noise as possible and trailed her fingertips along the wall, deep in thought. Trying to find another passage about the onocalcum had been a waste of time. It was mentioned only the once, in passing. Leon had pulled into himself after that, leaving her alone to get lost in the text. But even though she’d read every passage, studied every picture, and skimmed every graph, there had been nothing.
She was so consumed by her winding thoughts that she didn’t hear the voices until she was nearly to the library. There were two of them, both female, their voices slipping in and out of araasi as if it were second nature. Her racing thoughts slowed to a halt. She ducked into the library without thinking, pressing her back against the wall, and let out a string of internal curses. Because right where the little glowing girl had sat before was Idris.
“There’s our angel.” She smiled. “We were just talking about you.”
Yira sat by her side, her short, straight black hair parted in the center, hiding all but the edges of the abstract markings in the shape of leaves and the points of her ears. Syron noted they were shorter than those of the other sahiit—except for maybe Leon’s and Atlas’s. Yira’s expression was perfectly flat as Syron regarded her, so different from the initiation that Syron thought she may have imagined it.
“Calais was very talkative last night,” Idris continued. “Not at all like usual. It was the wine, I’m guessing. It has a rather…potent effect.”
“The wine,” Syron repeated. Every detail of Idris’s appearance was perfect, but the soft wave of her blond hair didn’t hide the hollowness in her cheeks, or the cold calculation of her almond eyes. Her markings were a shade lighter than her skin—Syron hadn’t noticed before—spreading like frayed symbols across her shoulders.
Idris crossed her legs delicately. “It’s stronger than most people give it credit for. Of course, I’m sure word would have gotten out that you’re sleeping with Leon eventually. It is a small faction, after all.”
Blood rushed to Syron’s cheeks, her neck, without her consent.
“That’s—” she stopped herself. “Nothing is going on between Leon and me. We’re just friends.”
“Of course. But if you were,” she waved her hand, “there’s no shame in it. We all have needs. Leon is a solid candidate, though, if you don’t mind the baggage. I’m just happy you’re finding your place here is all. As I’m sure Yira is.” She glanced next to her, but Yira’s focus was on the top of the doorway. Syron tried, and failed, to read her expression.
“I think I know perfectly well what my place is here.”
“Good, I’m glad for it.” Idris gave her a dazzling smile. “You’re welcome to join us if you’d like. Breakfast won’t be for another hour or so.”
“Thank you,” Syron clipped. “But I was just heading out.”
She kept her chin high and her pace even as she walked past them down the aisle. When she reached the last bookcase, the table creaked behind her.
“Oh, and Syron?” Idris said. “I wouldn’t worry about Calais. Poor girl begged over Atlas nearly half the night before she said anything about you. She was probably just jealous.”
Syron’s mouth thinned to a line. “Probably,” she agreed, and stepped through the wall, out the shed, and into the dull gray of early morning. The clouds hung low and full, and the grass was wet under her bare feet, but it wasn’t still raining, and that was something.
The picnic table next to the tree was empty like the rest of the field. She climbed on top and lay with her back against the splintered wood, wrapping her hands around the table’s edges, and stared up at the lilting leaves.
Maybe, she thought, I should have stayed with Evyn. It would’ve been better, surely, than the constant upheaval that had her second guessing every little thought, regretting every action. And at least then, the only person she would have hurt was herself.
The hollow gap in her chest throbbed at the edges. She leaned forward to catch her breath and pulled out the map Calais had given her. The mess of lines covering Evangentine was no clearer than before, but she did her best to trace them to the east, where a smudge of pen marked the center of the God’s City—exactly where Will had been in her dream.
The sun had broken through the clouds and beat down fresh and hot, but she shivered despite its warmth and drew her arms tight to her chest. She remembered everything Naveen had said about what the God did to angels and the experiments he did on the sahiit. She remembered her dream too, and felt again how the fear written plainly on the watchmen’s faces only layered with her own. She didn’t want to think about what they would do to him—to her Will, who had such a clear future in front of him before she had gone and ruined it.
Her breath hitched. All that time he had spent trying to save her, now it was her turn to save him.
She had just picked up the edge of the map when someone shouted her name. She jerked her head to the hill behind the shed and found Atlas and Calais side by side, flanked by a swath of sahiit all dressed in black gear with clasps down the chest. Calais slid her arm from his and started to run over. Her hair was down, but it didn’t hide the purple blotch on her neck that peeked out just above her collar. Her eyes fell on the map. “I wouldn’t have that open out here. You’re the last person Idris would want to have it.”
Syron clenched her jaw and folded it back up. As if that wasn’t what she had been doing already. “What do you want?” she snapped.
Calais startled. “Well, I was going to ask whether you wanted to help scout for watchmen, but since you’re obviously not in the mood, I won’t waste my breath.”
Syron barked a laugh and climbed off the table. “You’re right. Sorry if I’m not interested in talking to the person that told the whole faction I had sex with Leon.” Her cheeks burned, but she kept her voice low and even.
Calais’s eyes rounded. “I didn’t—” She faltered and looked at her hands. The gear extended over her palms, cutting off at the joints of her fingers. “I didn’t mean to. It just came out.”
Syron clenched her jaw. “Yeah, trying to get the attention of your boyfriend must be pretty hard without screwing over everyone else. Even if you couldn’t care less about me, you know that puts Leon in danger too.” Her fingers twitched around the fold of paper, and she flung it at her. Calais caught it reflexively. Over her shoulder, Atlas was already heading their way. “Oh,” Syron added, before she could interrupt, “and next time you lie to someone’s face, the least you can do is look them in the eye.”
