Dark Light of Day (29 page)

He leaned forward and pulled a slim leather case out of his jacket pocket. He flipped it open. Inside was a folded piece of parchment paper, obviously very old.

“What’s that?”

“I found it in the archives, in a cabinet marked ‘Correspondence—First 100 Years.’” He laid the case on the table and looked expectantly at me.

“May I?” I asked, reaching for the paper.

“Of course,” Peter said. “I brought it here for you.”

I picked up the paper and gently unfolded it. Scrawling lines of script blurred and blotched their way across a page faded and stained with time. I squinted, straining to make out the uneven writing.

I frowned, not following what clues this letter provided or why this information should be important. From a scholarly
perspective, it was fascinating. I found myself wishing Mary Aster had written more letters, or that Peter might have found a personal journal of some kind. This young woman had lived during the single most important event in our history, the Apocalypse. Few personal accounts of the days following Armageddon had survived.

“What happened to her?”

“Other records indicate that she died in childbirth.”

“Oh,” I said, inexplicably saddened by this woman’s death though she was a stranger. Then something occurred to me. “Why is her letter still in the Aster Archives?”

“Because it was never sent. The baby must have come prematurely as she’d anticipated. She must have died shortly after writing the letter.”

“So, if the letter was never sent…”

“Then Mary’s cousin never knew to search for the Prayer Book.”

“Right.”

“Noon, do you know what a Prayer Book is?”

“A book of prayers,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic. I may not have been given an Angel education like Peter but I wasn’t stupid.

“Yes,” Peter said, his smile a little too patronizing for my taste. “But no one calls them that anymore. ‘Prayer’ is an antiquated term from the pre-Apocalyptic days. In modern day,
prayers
are called
spells
.”

So Jonathan Aster’s spell book was in Lucifer’s tomb. If his spell book contained the Reversal Spell, no wonder no one had cast it in thousands of years. The location of Lucifer’s tomb was one of the greatest mysteries of all time.

T
he Joshua School’s equivalent to Marduk’s was Empyr. But comparing Empyr to Marduk’s was like comparing blown glass to the forge it was fired in. Empyr was located thirty-three floors above New Babylon on the top floor of the Joshua School. All of the walls were floor to ceiling windows and, rumor had it, the views were majestic and splendid. Certainly
the Angels had Heaven in mind when they built it. It was all lightness and glass, the décor modern and gleaming, the staff exceptionally courteous yet reserved, attentive but unobtrusive. The tables were covered with crisp white linens, fine china, and real silver. Empyr served wine in crystal goblets and the only fire was the tiny flame at the top of their myriad beeswax candles. Any wood burning fireplace would have generated far too much smoke. In Empyr, what wasn’t glass was covered in white.

Sometime during our discussion on Jonathan Aster’s spell book, Peter had asked if I wanted to go to dinner. Fitz was having dinner with his mother, and Ivy was likely still shopping, so I agreed and mentioned that I’d been headed to Marduk’s just before I ran into Peter. But Peter balked at Marduk’s. It could have been the uninspiring menu but I suspected Peter didn’t relish another run in with Ari. I didn’t either, at least not with Peter in tow. So Peter suggested Empyr and, I have to admit, I was excited not to have to eat clam chowder or, Luck forbid, another Innkeeper’s Pie.

Empyr was a private club. The Joshua students ate there, just as the St. Luck’s students ate at Marduk’s, and all Joshua School alums were lifelong members (so long as they paid their fees). But the real reason Empyr was such an exclusive, privileged club was that most of the Divinity were members there too. It would be like eating a minced ham sandwich at Marduk’s with a demon from the Demon Council. I couldn’t even imagine it. But for one night, I thought glamming it up would be a welcome change from the everyday slumming I did at Marduk’s. The only problem was that I wasn’t dressed for the occasion.

Still seated on the white couch looking out across Angel Street, I glanced down at my outfit. My trousers were less worn than Peter’s, but they were still made of canvas. I’d never been to Empyr, but if the dress code was anything like my mother’s, pants for dinner would be a mistake.

“Should I change?” I asked Peter.

“What for?” he said. He got up and offered me his hand. I raised an eyebrow. The old Peter would have suggested we
both change. I linked arms with him. He led me across the lobby, nodding at the boyish-faced man behind the counter. The man nodded back, his eyes resting briefly on me before turning his attention back to his duties.

As we walked into the lift, Peter slid his arm down so that he was holding my hand. We rode up to Empyr in silence. Peter held my hand loosely between us and I tried not to feel uncomfortable about that, neither squeezing back, nor letting go. In seconds, the lift door opened and we stepped into Empyr’s waiting area.

The place smelled divine. Like warm bread fresh out of the oven, with hints of honey, almond, and peaches. My stomach growled in response. I smiled at the tall, regal woman who greeted us. She had hair that was a shade darker than mine, almost pitch-black. She wore it straight, long and loose, but not a piece of it was out of place. Her clingy floor-length dress was absolutely spotless and bright white. She gave us a smile that was as white and bright as her dress and I knew instantly that any member of Empyr would be welcomed regardless of whether they were dressed in flawlessly draped silk or fraying canvas.

“Two for dinner, Mr. Aster?” she said expectantly, grabbing menus for us. I used the moment to look around.

Empyr was every bit as grand as I’d heard it was. Stepping out of the lift, one faced directly south. New Babylon spread out beneath Empyr like small blocks on a grid. In front of me the grayish blue length of the Lethe ran a serpentine course at the southern edge of the city. Beyond it, Etincelle sparkled in the distance, its faint, yellow glow like a lightning bug’s next to the nearer white starlight bright of New Babylon at dusk. To my right, the sun set over the western part of the city, its fiery colors melting behind the buildings of St. Luck’s into a viscous mix of red, orange, and yellow that made it seem as if the whole world was on fire.

I stared, stunned for a moment, by the beauty of it. But then, at Peter’s request, we were led into the section of the restaurant facing east. It was the least crowded section. Only a few other tables were occupied. It had a quiet feel to it;
even the view was subdued. Instead of the brilliance of the western sunset or the sparkle of the Lethe and Etincelle, the eastern section of Empyr looked out over mostly fields and farms. It seemed an odd choice for Peter, who, like most Angels, preferred urban, modern aesthetics to scenes of pastoral tranquility.

We were given menus and a wine list and left to ourselves. I reached for the wine list before Peter could. Empyr’s wine was as legendary as the restaurant itself. All of the wine was made in-house by Angels selected as much for their wine making abilities as their spell casting skills. All of the wines were made from apples (Angels were obsessed with apples) and each was paired with a beneficial spell. Empyr’s menu changed every few days; its wine list changed every night.

Curious about the night’s offerings, I took a look at the list:

The Spring Pearmain would have done me good but I wasn’t in the mood for a cold drink. And I didn’t need the Sweet Winesap to strengthen my romantic attachment. I was feeling far too attached to Ari already. The whole purpose of this meal was to forget about my current anxieties, both academic and romantic. So I ordered the Orange Pippin and tried to hide my smile when Peter ordered the Grindstone. Some things
hadn’t
changed. Peter might look different but his intellectual core was still intact.

Over drinks, the easy camaraderie Peter and I had always shared came back as if the last four months and my declaration had never happened. We were at it again, plotting my way out of being a death dealer. Surely, I convinced myself (the Pippin contributing greatly to this line of thinking), if we found the Reversal Spell and Peter successfully cast it, the demons on the Demon Council would not take offense. Peter’s value as a spellcaster would only increase and I could do more good for Halja as a Mederi than as a Maegester. My newly acquired knowledge of our potential sins should we cast the spell without permission (for Peter, Unauthorized Spellcasting; for me, Waste, to name the first two that sprang to mind) were easily pushed aside as I sipped my second Pippin.

After much mulling of the menu, I selected broiled whitefish with tomatoes, olives, and capers while Peter picked pine nut–encrusted sea bass served with potatoes. Our food arrived sometime later, smelling rich and flavorful. For a few moments I merely inhaled and consumed, happily aglow with the buzz of my Pippins and the company of my long-lost friend. Peter continued the discussion we’d started earlier, telling me how he—
we
—were going to search for Lucifer’s tomb. His usual unassailable confidence, combined with the effect of my drinks, had me nodding along with him.

“But what really happened to Lucifer after the battle of Armageddon?” I asked, picking at my fish with a fork. As delicious as it was, I was getting full.

“That’s the biggest mystery of all time,” Peter said. “Some say he transmuted on the field and turned into his true form
before he died. Others say he’s off somewhere gathering his strength so he can return to claim his throne. Others say he was buried where he fell in battle and that he rose again the next day as the Morning Star.”

Peter drank the last of his wine and looked out the window. The sun had set and the world below was mostly dark. Gas streetlights in the foreground gave way to yellowy glows behind farmers’ shades and shutters. Beyond that was the blackness of the unpopulated fields at night.

“The star legends are the most interesting,” Peter continued, “because they are unusually factual about the time and place of Lucifer’s death. According to those legends, Babylon was no more than a small fort at the time of Armageddon. Lucifer, his warlords, and the fallen demon legions were buried six leagues due east of the old fort.”

“Mary’s letter mentioned an abandoned fort,” I mused, getting caught up in the ancient mystery. “Too bad we don’t know where the old fort was. That would make looking for the tomb remarkably easy.”

Peter smiled knowingly at me. Despite the Pippin, I shivered. My voice dropped to an awe-inspired whisper. “You know where the fort is.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Take a look at these.” He pulled the slim leather case out of his pocket again and opened it. Inside, tucked down behind Mary’s letter, were two small pieces of paper I’d missed. He unfolded one of them and spread it out on the table.

“What is it?” I asked, reaching for it. I picked up the small piece of paper and examined it. It was tiny, no more than six inches square. It seemed to be some kind of architectural drawing.

“Some kind of building plan?”

Peter nodded just as I saw what was printed beneath it:
Fort Babylon.
The drawing showed the outline of the fort, complete with administrative buildings, a magazine, and parade grounds.

“Where did you get this?”

“Some old map store near Northbrook,” Peter said, waving
his hand to show the location of the clue had nothing to do with its significance. He laid down the other piece of paper. It was new, printed in color with a glossy finish. I recognized it immediately. Peter had torn out the first page of my Student Handbook. I pinched my brow, not understanding, and then suddenly, something clicked. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. My hand shook as I moved the old Fort Babylon drawing over the top of the new student’s map of St. Luck’s.

They were the same.

Lekai had been built where the magazine used to be and the administrative buildings were in the same place, although the Rabbit Warren had expanded. I realized, breathlessly, that the parade grounds could still be used for the same purpose today, if someone were to remove the benches from Timothy’s Square.