Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) (10 page)

“Friedrich is your father’s Guardian,” Ari said, frowning at Rochester. Guess Ari thought Rochester should have told me. I certainly thought someone should have, but since that person should have been my father I couldn’t be too upset with the rest of them. This little revelation, however, only reinforced my decision not to work with Fara. If daughter really was like father—
no, thanks
.

Friedrich cocked an eyebrow and stared at me, his head tilted just a bit to the left. His white eyes gleamed a bit too brightly, like he was a cat who had his paw on a mouse’s tail. Rochester cleared his throat and Friedrich turned around to wipe out and refill the silver chalice.

“You are familiar with Empyr wine, Ms. Onyx?” Rochester asked.

I nodded warily.

Angels were obsessed with apples. They took their love of this fruit very seriously, worshipping it as a symbol of the lost world they once ruled. A common motif in Angel art was the fallen apple that never rotted. Empyr wines were apple wines that were “enhanced” by some of the best Angel sommeliers in Halja. The enhancements were spells. Each batch had its own name, flavor, coloring, and associated spell. They were served upstairs in the Angels’ infamous restaurant on this building’s thirty-third floor.

I’d had Empyr wine exactly two times in my life. Each time it had produced life-altering effects, although in an indirect manner and not of the kind I could have guessed.

Friedrich turned back toward me and offered me the cup. Inside, the liquid was pink and fizzy and flecked with gold. I reached for the cup and there was a brief moment when I wasn’t sure Friedrich would let go.
Was the spell tied to his touch?
I yanked harder and the wine nearly spilled out of the cup as it broke free from his grasp. Rochester’s signature nudged mine, like a parent pinching an errant child. I glanced back at Ari, who gave me a tight smile.

I tipped the cup to my lips and drank. Immediately, a bitter, chalky taste filled my mouth. I hid my grimace, finished, and handed the cup back to Friedrich.

“This batch is called ‘Fortuna’s Favorites,’” Friedrich said. “Think you’re one of them?”

Time will tell,
I thought, but said instead,
“Fortes fortuna adiuvat.”
Fortune favors the bold. Another of Dorio’s sayings. Maybe Fitz had the right idea.

Friedrich grunted. Ari grinned.

Rochester held off magically pinching me again. Instead, he handed me a white linen napkin.

“A gift from this batch’s sommelier,” he said. “Some words of wisdom regarding this semester’s assignment.”

I choked back a laugh.
From tea leaves to wine tannins, where Angels fear not to tread . . .
I accepted the napkin and wiped my mouth gently. I’d been generous in this morning’s application of Daredevil Red lip paint. Who knew what my fortune might be if I added too much of that to the mix? But the laugh died in my throat as I looked down at my napkin. Slowly, a stain of words appeared:

When traveling into the unknown, sometimes the biggest danger is the one you bring with you . . .

The color of the words was entirely uncheerful. In fact, instead of wine or lip color, the words looked like they’d been written in dried blood. I crumpled up the napkin and shoved it at Rochester.

Then I pulled open the carved mahogany doors of the House of Metatron and entered its unwelcome darkness.

I
f hanging out in the Joshua School lobby, with its slanted angles, crazy shapes, and glamoured Angels, had felt like being in a carnival fun house, then emerging from the hallway into the House of Metatron was like entering a dark house of mirrors, one that was lit with candle-filled silver sconces and shimmering chandeliers. The courtroom’s mahogany walls curved into a soaring dome that was so high, the top disappeared into darkness. My guess was the Angels, who love white and bright, made this ceremonial courtroom dark in deference to the demons who ruled Halja.

The room was a circle and if one imagined a cake with the center cut out and the outer edges divided into four equal parts, that’s how the floor was divided. Two halves of the circle were for visitors or, in Angel parlance, the audience. One quarter of the outer circle was raised and a high ornate bench rested against the curved wall in back of it. The judges and emcees would sit there and, in front of them, the accused and witnesses would give testimony on small stands.

The final outer area of the room was the jury “box,” where all the Angels were gathered. Because of the curved walls, it wasn’t exactly a box, but it was encased with a decorative railing. Most of the Angels were standing around, talking amongst themselves. One, however, had already taken his seat. He sat in the front row, off to the side, with his long legs stretched out, feet resting comfortably on the rail. All he needed was a straw hat and a piece of grass between his teeth to complete the picture of idyllic unconcern.

Jutting out from the walls around the perimeter were theater boxes reserved for various greater demons. Designing these boxes (which were probably all for show and had never been used) was the closest the Angels would ever get to actually adoring a demon. Still, gazing into some of the darkened boxes—not really knowing if a demon was lurking inside—was unsettling. The nameplates on the boxes flickered in the candlelight, but were legible enough: Alibi, Disobedience, Tyranny . . . Evil’s box just looked like a big black hole. I turned away abruptly, my gaze coming to rest on the object that occupied the room’s center position.

It was Metatron’s statue of Justica, the Patron Demon of Judgment, Mercy, and Punishment.

Legend says Metatron, a first-century Angel scribe, fell fiercely in love with Justica. He revered her impartiality and dispassion, claiming her to be a paragon of law and order, so unlike the other slavering, bloodthirsty deity demons. He commissioned this statue and had it placed in a sturdy oxcart—the first “House of Metatron.” He traveled the whole of Halja with it rattling around behind him. He died without ever finding her. Hyrke romantics are very taken with the story, but I always wondered how much money Metatron made. How much had he charged folks for a chance to see Justica’s “real” likeness? How much had he charged to bring news from one outpost to another? How much had he charged to unofficially mediate the small disputes he likely encountered along the way? Hyrkes wouldn’t fall for a traveling road show or circuit court like Metatron’s these days, but back then, well . . . Metatron, like most Angels, had probably been quite the entrepreneurial herald.

From her central position in this modern-day House of Metatron, Justica’s stone face appeared to glare down at us with pursed, disapproving lips. Her gray hair was loosely bound in a bun at the back of her head and a formless shift draped her more than ample bosom and hips.
Timeless
and
venerable
were probably what Metatron had been going for when he’d commissioned this, but I couldn’t help thinking of the words
old
and
tired
when I looked at her. Justica carried the traditional sword and scales that marked her trade, although her sword tip rested on the ground, almost as if it were too heavy for her to lift. And, of course, she was blindfolded. Metatron, like modern historians, had likely told supplicants that the blindfold represented her objectivity. That Justica, unlike Fortuna, couldn’t pick favorites. But, considering the bloody tip of Justica’s sword, I rather thought I knew what the blindfold was for, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.

Ari came in looking rather sinister in this light. He always did in low lighting. That was part of his appeal. He wore a long-sleeved, iron gray tunic with a black leather vest. The amber-colored highlights his hair sometimes had in the sun were nonexistent in here. His signature, and those of the rest of the Maegesters-in-Training, were banked and, if not at ease, then at least subdued and in check.

Ari gave my elbow a slight squeeze and stood next to me. An Angel with sharp features, light eyes, and ice blond hair stepped onto one of the stands. His voice rang out in the chamber, startling everyone into silence.

“All rise!
Voir Dire
for the eight hundred and forty-sixth academic year is now in session. The Honorables Quintus Rochester and Friedrich Vanderlin presiding.”

Most of us were already standing, but Mercator, Sasha, the Angel with the flyaway hair, and Fara all leapt to their feet. Rafe pulled his feet off the rail, stood up, and thrust his hands in his pockets. Rochester and Vanderlin found their place at the bench and we all sat down. Friedrich spoke first.

“Today is the first day of the august and admirable three-day tradition of
Voir Dire
, whereby second-semester Maegesters-in-Training from St. Lucifer’s examine the eligible candidates from the Joshua School in order to determine who might be a good fit for them as Guardian. As all of you know, the Guardian/Ward relationship has been practiced since the early post-Apocalyptic days. This time-honored tradition and repeated bonding between our two sides has restored Halja to a harmonious state, a place where Angels, demons, and their Maegesters can coexist.”

Friedrich had each of us, Maegesters-in-Training and Angel candidates alike, stand up and introduce ourselves. Many of us already knew one another, but I did find out that the two Angels who had stood in front of me in line (the man with the pale oval face and the woman with the flyaway hair) were Lambert Jeffries and Melyn Danika, respectively. The Angel with the ice blond hair and chilling looks who had introduced Rochester and Vanderlin was the “hottie” Holden Pierce. Rochester took over speaking.

“Each MIT has been given a field assignment designed to test both your academic skills and your magical might. Going into the field is never easy. Halja’s outer territories are full of
rogare
demons and other dangers. The Angel you select today could very well save your life, many times over. Student rankings for the Maegesters-in-Training determine the order of questions and selection. Ms. Onyx, you may proceed.”

Suddenly, my mouth was dry. Ivy, Fitz, and I hadn’t prepared any questions. I’d barely reviewed all the CVs in my packet. I stood up almost involuntarily and glanced down at Ari. He gave me an impatient look. I don’t think he realized how ill prepared I was. I cleared my throat and looked over at the Angels. The longer my brain stayed blank, the harder my heart beat, until I finally blurted out, “Who’s been to the Shallows?”

Every single Angel stared back at me blankly. Pierce looked like his preference would be to take an oath to kill me, not protect me. Danika scowled and one of the Maegesters-in-Training in back of me snickered.

No one raised their hand so I sat down. After an uncomfortable moment, Ari stood up. He was
Secundus
so I guessed it was his turn to ask a question.

“Ms. Onyx and I have been asked to investigate an allegation of demon wrongdoing set forth in a demon complaint that was recently filed with the Council. The accused is an outpost lord and the complainant is one of his followers. Have any of you ever been involved with a demon investigation before?”

No one had, although Lambert Jeffries had spent considerable time studying Halja’s Wergild Index, so he was intimately familiar with the numerous, assorted, and quite imaginative forms of blood payment that we could demand if we found the accused guilty. Melyn Danika knew a few useful investigative spells and Holden Pierce told us that, although he hadn’t
yet
worked on a prosecution case, he
welcomed
a chance to do so. He emphasized his declaration by smashing his right fist into his left palm. I was tempted to ask him if, in addition to Painfall and Hemorrhage, he also knew the spell Melodramatic Gestures, but it wasn’t my turn.

And so the questions went. On and on. It was endless and not a little boring. The gavel came down for the first time on Thursday, our second day.

I’d started to zero in on Lambert Jeffries as a possible partner. He wasn’t perfect (he always seemed grumpy when he answered my questions, which would make for a long sail to the Shallows) but of the possible candidates, he seemed the least bad of the proffered “goods.” I mean, consider my choices! Holden Pierce (maniacal, bloodthirsty sadist); Fara Vanderlin (screechy, pulpit-pounding fraud); Raphael “Rafe” Sinclair (irritating slacker who asked more questions than he answered); and
et al
(“and others” seemed to sum up the rest admirably; there was nothing remarkable about
any
of them).

Late in the day, questioning worked its way back around to me again.