Covenant (3 page)

Three

And my first and last thought was: how could she leave me alone?
—A
NGELA
M
ATHERS

The pain forced Angela to finally open her eyes and come to terms with it.

Her bones ached. Her muscles felt like they'd been yanked out of her and then stuffed back beneath her skin. But the dim light of her room in the recently minted Emerald House had a soporific effect, and she lay there gazing out the window that first met her reopened eyes, watching in silent bewilderment while the snow fell and the reality that she was still alive sank in.

Slowly, she inspected the rest of her room, gradually turning her head to the left.

Her recent paintings of Israfel—all half-finished failures—peppered the area at the foot of her bed. Across the room on a small table, a pendulum clock marked the hour as half past five in the afternoon. Near the ceiling, her doll collection peered down from carefully placed shelves, row after row of them, perfect with their glass eyes, porcelain bodies, and fine lacy dresses. Sophia, looking like a life-size doll, sat by Angela's bedside and regarded her with a grim expression, her breaths slow, even, and somehow admonishing.

She wasn't at all the terrible vision from Angela's nightmare. In fact, she seemed even more delicate and frail.

Sophia sighed and offered Angela a glass of water from a tray at her bedside.

“Thanks,” Angela said, wincing at the pain in her voice box. She relished the water as it trickled down her raw throat. Then she gave the glass back to Sophia and stared at the girl's velvet slippers, still thinking of the terrible dream.

I was dead. That's the only explanation. After all, I can't dream anymore—I gave my dreams away in order to be with Israfel.

“Look where it's gotten you,” Sophia said softly.

“What?”

She can't read my thoughts—

“Your recklessness,” Sophia said shortly. “Whether it was you trying to kill yourself all those years ago, or whether it's you on a new, self-professed mission to stop someone else from doing the same, you never think things through, do you?” She rubbed her eyes in a gesture that was still elegant. “Do you remember what I said to you when you woke up after your first brush with death? After you used the Glaive to its utmost power to destroy Lucifel's shadow, despite Tileaf's warning? ‘And now you know the consequences.' I could say the same here. Now you know the consequences for trying to be a savior.”

The mention of Tileaf's name ricocheted through Angela like a bullet. She chose to ignore the guilt for now. “I would do it again.”

“Really?” Sophia whispered.

“Yes. I would try to save Janna again, even if I didn't have a chance. I don't regret a single thing about it.” Angela shifted up and let out a little yelp of pain. “Okay, maybe some things. How old is this mattress? It feels like a board.”

Sophia stared like a scolding mother at Angela for a while. But the usual soft smile cracked her porcelain features soon, and she helped Angela sit up in the bed, rearranging some pillows against her back. When Angela was comfortable again, Sophia clasped her hand gently. “You are the Archon, Angela. But overcompensating for that destiny won't help you. I know it bothers you that people say the Archon is evil, but—”

“I don't regret
trying
to save Janna, and I would do it again. End of discussion.”

Sophia sat back, biting her lip. “You're misunderstanding me.”

“I couldn't just let her die, Sophia.”

“I know.”

Sophia let the silence grow, staring out at the snow.

“Because I understand,” Angela said, “what it feels like to chase after dreams. To forget this world for something else. And I know what it is to regret that decision.” Angela glanced at her failed paintings of Israfel, suddenly aching to throw them into the fireplace like she had all the others that preceded them. She had been chasing after the angel of her dreams since childhood, had almost thrown away her life for him, had actually found him, and had been bitterly disappointed. Maybe that—as well as the cold fact that she could no longer dream about him—explained why every painting since the day he'd saved her from the edge of death had been a mess. “You're right—look at where it's gotten me. My arms and legs are a canvas of scars and burns. And he's out there in the glory of the universe, flying and singing without a care.”

“I wouldn't quite say that,” Sophia said grimly. Then she laughed. “But it's like you to make the Creator Supernal sound like nothing more than a spoiled songbird.”

Angela allowed herself to smile. Despite what had happened, it was always difficult for her to be too pensive around Sophia.

But . . .

“Sophia, what happened to Janna? Is she alive?”

Sophia stood from her seat. “Yes. She is. Though unlike you she's in the sick ward across campus. Honestly, it's a miracle that you both survived. In fact, the entire event seems like it will be the talk of the Academy for weeks. Everyone has a theory about how and why you two didn't die. Some people are whispering about your face-off with Stephanie Walsh last year, despite the warnings from the priests otherwise. They think that you are—in fact—a witch. Or worse . . .”

Angela didn't know what to say to that. She kept quiet for a moment, taking another drink of water. “So why didn't we die, then?”

Sophia turned around, her face lost in shadow. Her words sounded guarded. “I have my own theory about who saved you both.”

Who? What did she mean by “who”?

Angela sighed. “Well—come on. Out with it.”

Sophia hesitated but finally walked across the room and grasped something dark sitting on Angela's dresser. “I was the first to find you and Janna, so I thought it wise to take any incriminating evidence the priests didn't need to see. I found these near both of you, where you'd been
set down
on the ground.”

She returned to the bed and dropped two lengthy black feathers in Angela's lap.

They were more fitting for an eagle, not a crow, but Angela knew they didn't belong to any normal bird. She picked them up, holding them to the candlelight, her hands shaking. Surprisingly, the feathers took on a slightly bluish sheen in the glow of the room.

Like a blackbird's feathers . . .

Outside, the wind howled through the turrets.

The hair stood on the back of Angela's neck, and she realized she was holding her breath. In her mind, she pictured a black-winged devil that was also the perfect predator, watching her stealthily from the depths of the night.

“Troy?” she whispered, directing the question at Sophia. “Do you think these belong to Troy? But why would she come back now?”

Angela tried to suppress her shivers, but the horrid sensation stayed with her like it had in the classroom. Suddenly, it felt like foolishness to talk any louder.

Sophia said nothing, letting Angela inspect the feathers while she tidied the dorm. At last, she returned and said very gently, “It's impossible for two people to survive that kind of fall, Angela. Someone helped you. I doubt he or she was human. That's all that I truly know for sure.”

Angela struggled to breathe normally and think sensibly. She didn't want to admit it, but the idea that Troy was still out there, bound to Angela and eager to find her again, struck her with real fear. If Troy searched for Angela, she would find her eventually without a doubt. And then—well, Angela often tried not to think about that.

Angela coughed in her other hand and then set the feathers back down. “How did you manage to keep me here at the Emerald House instead of in the sick ward? You know how strict the superintendents are about—”

“They don't need to see anything . . . important.” Sophia averted her gaze. A distinct sadness weighed down her voice. “I know why you went after Janna, Angela. Next time—it would be better if you didn't keep things from me. Now, whenever you're ready, you should come downstairs and I'll call the Order and let them know. They've been clamoring to talk to you for days.”

“For days . . . I've been asleep that long?” Angela buried her face in her hands, groaning at the thought of dealing with the Order again. They were going to use Janna's case to further their cause, and hopefully with Angela's support. She knew it.

“Yes,” Sophia reiterated, “for days. You don't know what it's been like to deal with their scrutiny—not to mention the priests. When you come down, I'll have a sandwich ready for you. All your uniforms are in the closet. Where you
never
leave them.”

Sophia stepped out of the room and shut the door. The sound reverberated through Angela like thunder.

She flashed back to her strange dream and nearly shouted Sophia's name.

Just as quickly, she slumped back in the bed with her arm over her eyes, letting out some shaky breaths. Sweat beaded her forehead. The wind sighed again, and Angela lifted her arm to peer out the window. The snow continued unceasingly, almost forebodingly, but the gargoyle statue near the gables glittered within the flurries, strange and beautiful in the Advent candlelight. Ice coated its arms and wings, hanging from their stone tips like glittering daggers.

The stone devil wasn't real or alive. But Angela knew for certain that Troy was, and that she was possibly out there somewhere, watching.

Yet Angela's guilt was almost equal to her fear. She wanted to scream at herself for not telling Sophia about how the Grail had burned and warned her of Janna's impending actions. But how had Sophia known that was the case? The question nagged at her.

Angela glanced at her left hand, at its arm glove.

She tugged at the fabric, dreading something inside. Then she very slowly and carefully slid it off.

Bandages had been wrapped around her palm. Angela undid them, swallowing back a sick feeling.

The Eye that was the Devil's treasure gazed at her, more alive than ever. Worse still, tremulous beads of blue had gathered at its emerald corners. The Eye blinked like a nightmare, and the blue liquid seeped down to Angela's fingers.

She brushed at a droplet, startled by the stickiness against her fingertip.

Angela gripped the edge of the bed with her other hand, trying to hold on to her recently regained consciousness. Her vision danced and swirled like the snow. A spreading chill worked its way to her heart, and the warnings of danger from her odd vision rolled back in a sudden wave, suffocating her. Yet there was no one to see the truth but Angela, and outside, the drifts fell cold and silent, not betraying the dreaded reality.

Lucifel's stone was weeping tears of blood.

Four

Suddenly, I realized the universe would soon be different, and the world I walked upon eagerly awaited the change.
—A
NGELA
M
ATHERS

Luz. It was a city that Angela loved one day and hated the next, always refusing to accommodate her indifference. After eating her sandwich and gulping down another glass of water, Angela had spent her time waiting for the Order's arrival by sitting in an armchair near the hearth room's blazing fire, occasionally glancing out at the snow and the Christmas glory of the city, waving away any of Sophia's attempts to make her more comfortable.

Then, fighting her aching muscles, she'd tossed her blanket aside and selected a particularly thick book from the library at the far end of the chamber.
A History of the Vatican and Its Territories
had been printed in gold leaf on the spine.

Angela had hefted the book onto her lap as she sat again, leafing absently through pages illustrated in fine ink. She passed dates that seemed too old to be believed, then exited into a period of glorious Renaissance, and at last skimmed on to the technological explosion of the twentieth century. That last century had ended in a political upheaval that practically rearranged the world, giving the Vatican more power than it had possessed since the Middle Ages.

Now Angela flipped to the chapter devoted to Luz—the island city that was one of the twenty-first century's wonders of the world, and perhaps the Vatican's crowning achievement. The accompanying illustration perfectly captured Luz's sense of gothic claustrophobia. Completely at odds with the world around it, Luz's spires and shaky architecture seemed more like an act of defiance against the laws of physics. The city was a living cry against the sensibilities of the modern world and aroused as much fear as awe.

Its existence had become a stinging reminder of the mysterious and unfathomable. In Luz, anything was possible, and everyone accepted it, and no one bothered investigating anymore. Its location off the affluent and ultramodern American continent seemed like deliberate irony.

But it remained rudely isolated and frustratingly beyond science and progress.

Luz even stockpiled its own food. The recent troubling weather had cut off imports, but the city had sniffed at the world's concern. No, the newspapers had reported its authorities saying, we're just fine here, thank you. Many wondered, though, whether the city had merely shut its doors to ride out an apocalypse only Luz would survive.

The fact that the island only held so much food suggested a brutal swiftness to the storm.

Angela glanced at the snow outside the window and bit her lip.

She continued to read absently, aware of Sophia's fairy sweet voice humming in the background.

Luz is not the first city to be owned by the Vatican. Regardless, there are many who continue to argue the ethics of any one religion having the ability to establish a sovereign government, most pointedly to establish said government in a world where continental democracy has become the rule as well as the norm . . .

Angela clenched her throbbing left hand, rubbing the glove that covered it.

She knew the reasoning behind it very well. Luz was an antiquated city of stone and candlelight where technology hid and the supernatural thrived. It was the only city in the world that welcomed humans with red hair like herself—the persecuted embodiments of a dreadful prophecy of Ruin. For that reason, Angela loved her new home. What she did not love was the cold-blooded reason behind the welcome, and perhaps the city's existence. In reality, Luz was a literal capstone over Hell, and there were some who believed the Archon who fulfilled the fearful prophecy would be Hell's new ruler. So the Vatican encouraged “blood head” attendance at the illustrious Westwood Academy, treated blood heads with deference and constant pandering, and helped grow latent supernatural abilities to perilous levels, all in the hope of finding the fickle, dangerous Archon and stamping him or her flat.

The ploy hadn't worked.

Angela allowed herself a smile.
I'm the Archon, and I'm alive after all. And the day I rule over Hell will be the day it freezes over.

A sudden rush of cold air swept into the room, tickling at the garland on the hearth.

Angela shut the book hastily, cursing to herself as Sophia guided members of the Vermilion Order into the Emerald House foyer.

The Order was made up of red-haired students like Angela, but they pointedly refused mention of “blood heads” unless absolutely necessary. The nasty term had been adopted after the Archon's prophesied blood-red hair became common knowledge. Angela understood the Order's position on the matter entirely. But more than anyone, she also knew how hard it was to reconcile the past with the present.

She allowed herself a deep sigh.

Yes, Angela had been happy that the past year wound on uneventfully. Quiet, peaceful. Not a sign of the horror that took place in this city, or at the Academy, to be found. That was what she'd hoped for when she first came to Luz—a normal life despite being a blood head. And she'd found it, somehow able to leave the dreams that haunted her behind. Yet they never seemed to stop pursuing her.

The noise of boots shaking off snow, of coats taken and pleasantries exchanged, echoed into the empty house. Angela set her quilt aside and stood up to greet the Academy students noisily entering the room, doing her best to look genuinely happy to see them. She shared a glance with Sophia that screamed,
Get me out of this.

Sophia shook her head and tried to hide her laughter.

A good-looking university student with peppery red hair shook Angela's left hand.

Angela winced, flexing her palm. She winced even more after spotting a female novice and two younger priests standing among the Order's numerous members. This wasn't going to be good. The priests' stoic expressions said it all. Angela was cornered this time.

After everyone exchanged a few more nods and greetings, Sophia took the lead and guided everyone into the Emerald House's adjoining dining room. The table was large enough to seat at least twenty, but Angela and Sophia were the only two people in the Emerald House, the lone members of a now defunct sorority. They never ate in this room, always dining at the Academy's cafeteria instead.

Yet with her usual elegance, Sophia had done her best to make the room cozy and tasteful.

Red ribbons, candles, and imported pine garlands glittered throughout the room. A large platter of bread and cheese had been set at the center of the table, and a crystal water pitcher—still lovely despite a chip in its handle—cast back the light. The priests were the first to sit, followed by the members of the Order who dived into the cheese almost immediately.

Sophia gave Angela a knowing look and swept away into the hearth room again.

“Angela Mathers,” an older priest directly to her left finally addressed her. “I hope you are feeling better. We're grateful you've taken the time to speak with us after your recent injuries.” He scanned her up and down, his gaze lingering on the scars crisscrossing her legs. His voice had a creaky weariness to it, but sounded sincere. “The entire university has been asking about you, but we weren't about to say anything concerning your condition until we'd seen you for ourselves. You have a wonderful nurse in your friend.”

“She is certainly an interesting girl,” a young man with russet hair said. He searched Angela with his eyes. They were a dirty but strangely familiar shade of hazel. He smoothed out his overcoat, seeming to make a point of playing with the embroidery on the lapel. “Have you known each other long?”

“For about a year,” Angela said, forcing herself to speak up. There were too many eyes on her. She hated the feeling.

“Really?” The young man settled back in his chair and smiled. “You'd think I would have seen her around more often. She's like a doll—not quite real. I would certainly have remembered her.”

Angela cautiously met his gaze. “Sophia prefers to do much of her studies here in the house. Unlike me, she tends to get sick a lot in the cold.”

The female novice to Angela's left chose this moment to pipe up. She folded her hands and regarded Angela keenly. “All the more reason for both of you to leave this shell of a sorority and merge with another society at the Academy. The two of you playing house in this rickety building is absolutely ridiculous. Everyone knows the Emerald House is nothing more than the remains of Stephanie Walsh's horrid Pentacle Sorority. Why cling to that kind of legacy?”

The old priest near Angela sighed. “Lizbeth, you would do well not to mention that name any more than necessary. The less talk here of the past, the better. Besides, I'm sure it only brings back unpleasant memories for Miss Mathers. For us all.”

Lizbeth? Angela vaguely recognized her. Their schedules at the Academy were quite similar, though that was obviously more than coincidence now.

“With all due respect, Father Schrader,
blood heads
are more than witches,” the young man with the russet hair said. “That's Lizbeth's point.”

Angela looked up from her bread, searching every face. “And that's why you're all here, correct?”

There was a silence that felt oppressive.

“I know,” Angela continued more softly, “that you want me to join your Order. Because you think I have some kind of influence among students like us at the Academy. Why? Because of what happened last year with the blood head witch Stephanie Walsh? Need I remind everyone where she is now—locked in an asylum? I'm not your personal savior. You don't need someone like me as your leader and spokesperson.”

Lizbeth took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Angela, do you know why Janna tried to commit suicide? Are you not aware of how we are being treated in this city since Stephanie Walsh's daylong reign of terror last year?”

How could I not be aware? If people don't admire me, they fear me.

“Janna was being bullied mercilessly in the past few weeks,” Lizbeth said hotly. “And if it weren't for your help, she'd be dead. Tell me that doesn't give you a sense of pride.”

Father Schrader raised an eyebrow. “It was a miracle they both survived, Lizbeth. Let us consider Miss Mather's good luck rather than her bravery. I beg you, Camdon, interrupt.”

The russet-haired young man named Camdon took on a much more congenial tone. “What Lizbeth is getting at, Angela, is that we are being prejudiced against in the worst way possible. Janna is only one of countless others in her predicament. This Academy was made to be a haven for people like us, but if even that's been lost to us now, we should at the very least band together and look out for one another's interests. Stephanie's sorority was as corrupt as her, but with you at the head of this newly formed Order—”

“What makes you think that more segregation will help our cause?” Angela said a little hotly herself. “If anything, we should be working to dispel some of the myths about us and mingle with other people, not give them even more reason to be afraid!”

Camdon blinked at her. “You only say that because you're forgetting what it is to be ostracized, Angela. Because of Stephanie's accusations last year, the student body has given you a wide berth. You've had it too easy. Your life is too normal, and you're too respected now. But I guarantee—all that is going to change. It's only a matter of time.”

Angela stood, pushing back her chair. “You're going to sit there and tell me that I don't know what it is to be
ostracized
? Is that it? So what are you saying? That Stephanie should have been right and I was the dreaded Archon after all? Is it better to live my life with the Academy's eagle eye on everything I do than for a few people to be afraid of me?”

And even though Angela was the Archon, she'd be damned that they know it. Better that everyone lived in their fantasy world where Stephanie was the beginning and end of all problems and Angela could be left alone
.

Father Schrader was visibly nervous now at the mention of the Archon. He tasted his water, licking his lips. “Miss Mathers, let's not jump to conclusions and become overly emotional. The events of that horrid night are now lost to us, and we have the future of this Academy to consider. The proposition Camdon suggests is sensible at the very least. A student as admired and respected as yourself is doing no good rotting away in this empty sorority house. You would serve the world, and those like you, much more by becoming a mentor, a leader who could speak for those who are fast losing their voice. Don't forget, there are many now who are well aware of the circumstances behind the loss of your family, your brother . . .”

At the mention of Angela's brother, everyone went silent again.

Sophia chose this moment to reappear, staring at Angela from a shadowy corner. Her expression suggested only she knew the pain in Angela's heart and how deep it went.

Angela steadied herself, biting her lip. Tears welled in her eyes and she wished them away frantically.

Camdon stood, his shadow casting itself across the table. “Angela, I know what it is to lose the people you love. And that's why I am here on behalf of the Order, solemnly asking you for your help, to be our leader. Angela, do you know who I am? Do you recognize me at all, in any way?”

Angela regarded him. His face was soft but handsome. Yet all she could see were his muddy hazel eyes.

Recognition seared through her. She knew Camdon saw it behind her shocked expression.

“That's right. I'm Nina Willis's brother. Her half brother to be exact.”

Angela slumped back into her seat, dazed. In her mind, she saw Nina dying all over again, plummeting into Hell so that Angela could live. It had only been a painful year since then, but even now the memories were more like half-remembered nightmares, their details blurring and fading with the passage of time.