Angels of Darkness (31 page)

At my tone, his features gathered in a scowl. “
Who
are you?” he repeated.

“Moriah. I'm a cook at the school.”

“You're insolent for a cook.”

It was all I could do to keep from replying,
You're pathetic for an angel.
Instead I said, “I suppose you're used to being treated with more deference.”

“With
civility
,” he shot back. “With the sort of politeness anyone would extend to a stranger.”

There was a difference; even I had to acknowledge that. “I'll be nice if you will,” I said. “Why don't you eat? That way I can take all the dishes down at once. We don't want rats coming for the scraps.”

I could tell by his expression he realized this was sensible, but he said, “I told you. I'm not hungry.”

He sounded like a petulant girl who hadn't gotten her way on some trivial matter and was determined to sulk about it until everyone noticed. “Maybe not,” I said. “But I'm afraid if you won't eat now, you'll be
very
hungry by the time I can make it back here tomorrow night. You really should eat something.”

He hesitated a moment, not done sulking, but gave in. “Oh, very well.” I expected to have to guide him toward the table where I'd left the tray, but he came to his feet and headed unerringly in its direction, dragging his chair behind him. His wing tips trailed on the floor, completely unheeded, like the cloth belt from a robe that had fallen open when the sash was untied.

“How did you do that?” I asked when he sat down and began feeling for the silverware. “Find the food?”

“I could smell it,” he said. He picked up a fork and took a bite of potatoes.

He had not invited me to join him, but I settled into a chair across the table from him and studied his face. “You must have a keen nose.”

He considered that while he chewed and swallowed. “Now, maybe,” he said. “It's not something I ever noticed before.”

“Now—you mean, since you lost your sight?”

“Yes,” he said bitterly, “that's exactly what I mean.”

“How did it happen?” I asked. Maybe he decided my tone was curious, rather than rude, because he didn't seem offended, though he finished another mouthful of food before he answered.

“I was blinded,” he said, “by a thunderbolt from the god's hand.”

My eyes opened wide, because
that
was terribly dramatic. “The god was angry at you? What had you done?”

He shook his head, chewing again. For someone who claimed to have no appetite, he was tearing through dinner at a rapid clip. “Not angry. There was a prayer for lightning, and he responded with lightning.” The angel took a drink from his water glass. “And destroyed me.”

My brows drew down. That was a pretty sketchy story. “Were you the one praying for lightning?”

He shook his head, his expression bleak. He couldn't see
now
, but it was clear he was watching some internal vision. “A boy. I was teaching him some of the elemental prayers. How to beg Jovah for rain, how to ask him to stop the rain. How to pray for thunderbolts.”

I'd never given it any thought, but the entire sky must light up with a dazzling display whenever those particular songs are being taught. “I'm surprised the whole lot of you aren't blind by now,” I remarked, “with prayers like that on the loose.”

The angel shook his head again. “We know the risks, and we contain them,” he said. “We know never to sing the whole melodies all the way through. We teach the first half of the prayer, then we work on different songs, then we go back to the plea for lightning. Everyone is always very careful.”

“Then what happened?”

“Aaron was young. And confident and careless and curious. Maybe he didn't believe something as simple as a song could call something as terrible as a thunderbolt. Maybe he was showing off. I don't know. But he didn't end the song where he was supposed to. When I realized he was still singing, I ordered him to stop, but he wouldn't. We were in a small building in Cedar Hills—there were twenty students in the room. I started shouting at all of them to get out, get out, and then I ran back to Aaron, to wrestle him to the ground, to
make
him stop.” The angel shrugged. “But the prayer was complete. The lightning bolt came. The building was demolished.”

“And you were blinded,” I finished. “Did you get injured as well?”

He nodded. “I have burns across my back and one down the side of my ribs. Scars now, but bad ones at the time.”

“What about Aaron?” I asked. “Was he blinded, too?”

The angel was silent.

“Dead, then,” I said with a sigh. “Well, there was a terrible lesson.”

The angel laid down his fork. “The world is full of terrible lessons,” he said.

I could hardly argue with that. “When did it happen?”

“Two years ago.”

“And you've been here that whole time?”

He shook his head. “No. I stayed in Cedar Hills—oh, six months. It took that long to heal, to learn how to—” He shook his head again.
How to navigate the world as a blind man
. “But I found it too painful to be around other angels. So I have moved from place to place, looking for peace.”

I glanced around the room, full of shadows and regret. “And found it
here
?”

He gave a small bark of laughter. “Hardly. This is just a stop. A quiet place where no one will bother me while I try to think of what to do next.”

“Well, sitting here in solitude all day, doing nothing except thinking about the past, seems like the worst possible way to find peace,” I said.

“You don't know anything about it,” he snapped.

“Do you think you're the only one who's ever had grief in his life?” I demanded. “Pick five people at random on any street in Samaria, and you'll find that they've suffered at least as much as you have. And most of
them
are getting on with their lives, not sitting in some dark room and moping.”

While he had told his story—and I had listened with a certain sympathy—he had seemed to forget how irritating I was, but he was remembering pretty fast now. He came to his feet in one swift movement, and his wings swept behind him with a kind of grandeur.

“I appreciate your insights,” he said in an acid voice. “Some other day, perhaps, we can discuss the tragedies
you
have survived.” He gestured toward the door; I was interested to note that he knew precisely where it was. That unwary step that had caused him to trip on the roof must have been a rarity. “But I'm tired. Please take
all
the trays with you as you go.”

Just to annoy him, I stacked the dishes as noisily as possible. He'd left half his breakfast untouched, but he'd done a good job on the dinner; maybe a little argument was what he needed to stimulate his appetite. Pausing in the doorway, I said, “I'll be back tomorrow night at about this time. Late. If you get hungry before then, can you make your way downstairs?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. Unsaid went the rest of the sentence.
But I don't expect to be hungry. I'm never hungry. I'm too sad to eat.

“Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

I paused long enough to give him time to say
I'd rather starve to death than spend another minute talking to you.
But he didn't. He merely stood there, obviously waiting for me to go. I was sure that, no matter how quietly I moved, he would be able to tell when I had left the room.

Alma was sleeping when I checked on her, which made me realize she must be in even worse shape than I'd thought. Otherwise, she would have managed to stay awake long enough to give me a furious scold for spending so long in the angel's room. There were medicinal herbs in the school's infirmary; I would have to bring her some tomorrow night when I returned to take care of the angel.

My plan had been to trick my way into his presence so I could prove to myself I had no reason to fear him. Instead it seemed I would be bringing him meals and employing edgy banter to prod him out of his melancholy. The situation was so preposterous that, if I hadn't been worried about waking Alma, I would have laughed out loud. Instead, I washed the dishes as quietly as I could and made sure the fire in the oven was out before I finally left the house for the night.

 

 

I
slept badly—so busy reviewing my conversation with the angel that I kept fending off sleep—and spent the next day sleepwalking through my chores. I managed a quick unobserved visit to the infirmary, where I secured a container of manna-root salve and a roll of bandages so I could rewrap Alma's ankle. Finally I joined the others in the kitchen as they began cleaning up after the evening meal and scrubbed at the pots as I waited impatiently for all of them to go to bed.

Again, it was close to midnight before I could slip outside and hurry up the hill to the Great House. Alma was waiting for me, seated at a kitchen worktable and facing the door. She was a determined one, I gave her credit for that, for she'd found a way to move around the kitchen well enough to put together a simple meal. There was bread cooling on the table and a covered pan warming on the stove.

“How's your ankle today?” I asked as I stepped inside.

She made a face. “Hurts even worse than yesterday, though I wouldn't have thought it possible.”

“Let me look at it before I go upstairs,” I said. “I brought some salve and better bandages.”

I could tell she didn't like it, but she allowed me to examine her injury again. No wonder she was in so much pain. The great purple bruise had spread down toward her toes and up toward her knee, acquiring some interesting tints of red and yellow. But I didn't think there was a broken bone. I turned it gently and prodded it in the likely spots, and she didn't cry out.

“It's going to be a while before you can put any weight on this,” I said. “But maybe the manna root will make you feel better.”

It did, almost instantly, as it usually does. I've always thought that manna was the best of the god's tangible gifts. She looked both relieved and grateful as the salve went to work, and I saw her surreptitiously flexing her toes. Hoping that the absence of pain was the same thing as healing. Of course, that's never true, no matter how you're hurting.

“How was the angel when you saw him last night?” she asked.

“Short-tempered and feeling sorry for himself” was my prompt reply.

That widened her green eyes, then narrowed them in consternation. “You talked to him? I told you not to bother him.”

I shrugged. “I had to explain who I was. And then we exchanged a few more words. He struck me as a very bitter man.”

“Anyone might be, under the same circumstances,” she said, but she didn't sound convinced. I was willing to bet that Alma had met her share of adversities and refused to buckle under any of them.

“Maybe,” I said. I made a neat pile of the salve and bandages, then stood up and began gathering dinner items. “I'm impressed that you were able to cook a meal,” I said, peeking under the lid of the pan. It appeared to be dried meat made tender again by baking in juice and onions, and it smelled delicious.

“It took me the entire day to assemble everything,” she said. “And I made the easiest meal I could think of.”

“Well, he certainly liked what you cooked yesterday,” I said, filling up a plate and adding a good chunk of the bread. “He ate it all.”

“He did?” She sounded pleased. “Usually I bring back half of what I take him.”

I had picked up the tray, but now I paused with a couple more questions. “How long has he been here?” The angel had not answered when I asked him the same question.

“Six or seven weeks.”

“And how does he occupy his time?”

“The headmistress usually spends part of the evening with him, but I don't know what they talk about. And sometimes when he's alone, I hear music.”

“Singing?”

“Never. Some kind of stringed instrument, but I don't know what.”

“And other than that, he just sits up in that room by himself all day, doing nothing? Sweet Jovah singing, it's a wonder he hasn't thrown himself off the roof by now.”

She frowned. “I'm sure he has plenty to occupy his thoughts,” she said stiffly.

“
Nobody's
thoughts are that interesting,” I said and headed toward the door. Just on the other side of it, I turned back. “What's his name?”

Alma was still frowning. “You may address him as angelo, if you need to speak to him at all.”

“Of course,” I said smoothly, though I had never used the honorific in any of my infrequent conversations with angels, and I wasn't about to start now. “But what's his name? Just so I know it.”

“Corban,” she said.

“Very well,” I said. “I'll go take Corban his dinner.”

L
ike Alma, the angel was waiting for me, or so it seemed: He had turned his chair so it faced the door, and his whole posture was alert. Even his wings were less dispirited, arching behind his back as if they had been plumped and groomed. It was obvious he had heard me climbing the steps and could tell by the cadence of my footfall exactly when I crossed into the room.

“I'm back. Moriah,” I said. “Are you hungry tonight?”

“A little,” he said.

“You should try to eat everything, since it cost Alma some effort to make it for you,” I said. “Her ankle is still very painful.”