No Shadows Fall (3 page)

Swearing in Aramaic, Semjaza teleported, departing Ur and cloaking himself with his magic and his power. Angry and frustrated, Semjaza went to Paris.

S
EMJAZA
TRIED
not to gawp like an unlettered country bumpkin as he walked down the Champs-Élysées. Paris was like no city he had ever seen, not even Eden. The lights and the color, the noise, the people… it was as if all the life in Eden had moved to this one city in the middle of Europe. The Arc de Triomphe was magnificent, Semjaza thought, and he decided to have one built in Eden as soon as possible.

The Eiffel Tower, though… Semjaza could not stop himself from staring. Lit up by a myriad of lights so it seemed to glow like a twinkling jewel set in a living crown, the structure awed him. The ingenuity that had gone into designing and maintaining such a beautiful edifice was not lost on him. Semjaza stared for a good half hour, lost in his contemplation of the brilliantly lit Eiffel Tower illuminated against the night sky.

Finally, he shook himself and resumed walking, listening to the snippets of conversation as he passed the humans going about their evening business. He could feel Azazel was close, and he was eager to see his old companion, but he did not want to appear impatient. He wanted to savor this, his first time walking in a modern city.

The language these humans spoke was called French, he learned, and he became proficient in it by leeching the lexicon of the language from their minds and listening to them talk. By the time he rounded a corner and entered the small café from which the sense of Azazel’s presence came, he was as fluent as a native speaker.

Azazel was alone, seated at a small table in the back corner of the café. He was nursing a glass of red wine, and his expression, as Semjaza approached, was a mixture of disbelief and joy. As Semjaza drew close, Azazel leapt from his seat and wrapped his arms around Semjaza in a hug.

Laughing softly, Semjaza hugged Azazel back. It had been so long, and he was overjoyed to see his good friend once more.

“I had scarce dared to believe it was true,” Azazel said, pulling back enough to look closely at Semjaza’s face. “I felt you land, my liege. I did not know if you were free by your design or by Gabriel’s.”

Semjaza laughed loud and long at that. “By my design, old friend. Gabriel would hardly set me free, now, would he?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Azazel said with a chuckle. “Come, sit, and take a glass of wine with me.”

Semjaza sat in the chair opposite Azazel and smiled as Azazel took his hand in his own.

“I missed you very much, your majesty,” Azazel said.

“Please, just Semjaza for now.” Semjaza gave Azazel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “There will be time for titles later when we put the world to rights and take back what is ours.”

There were tears in Azazel’s eyes. “I never lost faith,” he said, his breath hitching as he spoke. “I never stopped believing you would return. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”

Semjaza smiled. “I am glad to see you too, Azazel. I have learned much during my confinement, but I confess that walking these streets and listening to these children of clay—these humans—speak their languages is far different from observing from above.”

“Did you have any trouble? I mean, how did you do it?” Azazel’s voice was full of wonder.

“I studied, I watched.” Semjaza chuckled. “Are we not The Watchers, Azazel? Was that not our first occupation? So I did exactly that and watched the scientists and learned men who studied the stars, and I took their teachings to heart. I used my magic and their knowledge to break the bonds of confinement and open a small window between the Celestial bars of my cell.” He smirked, feeling superior to the mortals. “A mortal scientist would no doubt scoff at such a thing. But then, a mortal scientist does not have the abilities that I do.”

“I confess I do not understand.” Azazel shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re finally free.”

“As am I, old friend.” Semjaza nodded to the waitress who brought glasses of wine, and when she was out of earshot, he went on. “Tell me, how are the rest of our choir?”

Azazel sighed. “Not well. Many are in Hell, as you know. Those few of us who managed to escape and remain free are fewer now. Some gave up hope and willed themselves to cease to exist. Some went insane and were killed by Archdemons under Lucifer’s orders. Only myself, Kokabiel, Penemuel, and Baraqiel remain free
and
sane.”

Semjaza’s expression grew sad. “I am sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “I would have freed myself earlier if I could.”

“It is not your fault, your majesty.” Azazel smiled a bit. “We knew that the situation would not be quick to resolve itself and that it would take time. We understood this. So, we have hidden ourselves and waited for this day to arrive. I pretend to be an advisor to the leader of this country, working in the field of weapons development for the military. Kokabiel is in Belgium, a country that borders this one to the north, working with astronomers there. And Baraqiel is with him, the two of them working together on the science of the stars. Penemuel works at the British Library in the land called England. I have not seen him for some years.”

“We must call Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel to join us,” Semjaza decided. “There is much to be done, and we need to gather our strength.”

“Your will be done,” Azazel said, inclining his head. “I will contact them now.”

“Excellent.” Semjaza sipped his wine, watching Azazel out of the corner of his eye as the other angel’s gaze grew distant. Semjaza could feel Azazel’s thoughts reaching out, hidden carefully from all save their own choir as he spoke to Penemuel, Kokabiel, and Baraqiel. After perhaps ten minutes, Azazel’s eyes cleared and he smiled.

“They come. They will join us here in Paris in the morning. You would honor me by staying at my home tonight, Semjaza.”

“Thank you.” Semjaza smiled. “I accept your offer of hospitality.”

“What do you plan to do first, now that you are free?” Azazel asked.

“I plan to find my sons and my wife,” Semjaza said, toying with his wine glass. “I plan to free our choir who are languishing in Hell. And then I plan to take back Eden and the lands called the Middle East and rule them as I did before. Finally, but by no means the least, I plan to kill Archangel Gabriel.”

Azazel smiled. “An excellent set of plans, my liege.”

“I rather thought so myself.” Semjaza raised his glass. “To victory and vengeance.”

Azazel raised his glass as well. “To victory and vengeance.”

“So”—Semjaza stretched out one leg beneath the table—“tell me of our people. Tell me what I have missed while I was imprisoned.”

Azazel pursed his lips for a moment, then spoke. “There is not much to tell that you would not have already seen, sire. There was a war; it ended not long ago. It came about because Shamsiel, driven mad by his incarceration in Hell, sold his feathers to a human who sought to raise armies from Gehenna to do his bidding and take over the world. The war lasted seventy years. Much has changed because of it, but these children, the humans, are tenacious and determined to rebuild.”

Semjaza sighed. “I grieve for Shamsiel. He was misguided in his actions, although I can understand that he was not in his right mind. I take it that he was killed because of what he had done?”

Azazel nodded. “I understand that he was taken to Lucifer himself and thrown into the Lake of Eternal Fire.”

Semjaza shuddered. “An unseemly end for a Grigori.”

“What’s done is done,” Azazel said, toying with his wine glass. “Sire, might I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Your raiment is not… it will draw attention. If you wish to remain concealed from gossip that could reach the ears of the Archangels, I would recommend that you seek different attire.”

Semjaza chuckled. “I shall be guided by you, old friend. You understand these things better than I. I intend to confront the Archangels, but that will be at a time of my choosing. How do they fare, that most sanctimonious of all the choirs of Heaven?”

Azazel took a deep breath. “Gabriel and Michael are lovers,” he began, “as are Uriel and Raziel. Samael remains alone and aloof, Haniel lives in the land called India. Metatron spends more time in Heaven than on Earth, and Tzadkiel has a home in the land called America. I do not know for certain, but I suspect that he is involved with his two lieutenants, Sophiel and Brieus. Raphael stays in London or Crete with his lover, Israfel, the Angel of Music. Raphael was lately rescued from a kidnapping—two Archdemons and some humans sought to sell angelkind to wealthy humans. The plot was foiled, so the Archangels have done one useful thing. We are not made to be servants and slaves.”

Semjaza snorted at that. “Indeed not. Humans are to serve
us
, not the other way round. Continue.”

“Of course, sire.” Azazel paused to gather his thoughts. “Remiel also has a house in the land called America,” he said cautiously. “Ishtahar, your wife, spends a lot of her time working with damaged humans who are protected by Agrat bat Mahlat.”

Semjaza gave a small, fond smile. “My beloved was ever attentive to the needs of the less fortunate. My sons, Azazel. Tell me of my sons.”

“Ahijah spends much of his time in the South American lands,” Azazel reported. “He keeps to himself but visits occasionally with his mother. He has grown into a fine Nephilim. Hiwa is… difficult.” Azazel sighed. “Currently, I believe he is in prison in Russia. He has some standing with certain crime syndicates in that land. Semjaza, be careful with Hiwa. He is… angry.”

“Too angry to speak to his father?” Semjaza raised an eyebrow.

“I… yes.” Azazel cringed a little. “He created wards to keep myself and the others away from him. He wants nothing to do with his family. He speaks to his mother from time to time and to his brother even less, but the rest of us… no, he wants nothing to do with us.”

“I will go see him,” Semjaza declared. “After I have spoken with our friends. And then we will make plans and set them in motion.”

Azazel bowed his head. “As you decree, sire.”

“Where is Ishtahar living when she is not assisting Agrat?”

“In the town of North Canaan, Connecticut, sire.” Azazel sounded relieved to be no longer talking about Hiwa. Semjaza wondered just what his eldest son had been doing to cause such a reaction in his old friend.

“Canaan?” Semjaza quirked an eyebrow. “What a droll choice of name. Canaan is in Israel.”

“Ah, yes. Well, it was,” Azazel amended. “It’s gone now. So much of the land that we knew has gone or changed beyond recognition. I do not know why the Americans chose to call their town North Canaan.”

“Interesting.” Semjaza lifted his glass and drained it of the contents. “We will speak of these and other things later. Now, I think we should see to more appropriate raiment so that I may move easily around the world.”

Azazel bowed his head once more. “Of course, sire. I will take care of everything.”

Semjaza smiled beatifically. “I know you will, Azazel. I have great faith in your abilities.”

“Your majesty honors me,” Azazel said.

“Come.” Semjaza stood. “Let us take care of my appearance.”

A
FTER
HOURS
of what seemed frivolous pampering, during which Semjaza found himself laughing often, Azazel took him to the penthouse apartment he owned in Paris. It was in a quiet part of the city, an older quarter that was full of narrow streets and ancient buildings, some dating back to the times of the Romans. Azazel’s building was in the style he called Art Deco, and there was something about the elegant, curving sweeps in the artifices and design that teased at Semjaza’s mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It continued to puzzle him as Azazel led him to an old elevator with an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed the bronze button that took them to the top floor. Only when the elevator opened up into Azazel’s home, the corners of the rooms rounded and the ceilings decorated with elaborate frescoes in soft hues, did it come to Semjaza.

“Your home,” he said, turning in a circle and taking in the space, “it is Eden.”

Azazel smiled. “As close to Eden as humans could ever come, sire.”

“It is remarkable.” Semjaza looked at the tall windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, bordered by dark wooden frames that curved around each other. “Remarkable and beautiful.”

“Please,” Azazel said with a smile, “make yourself at home. I had the housekeeper make up the room at the east end of the hallway for you.” He gave Semjaza a respectful bow and walked off, leaving Semjaza alone in the elegant entry hall.

From the direction that Azazel had walked came the sound of machines, and Semjaza drifted down the corridor, pausing to gaze at priceless paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Nothing was overdone here; it was all tasteful and beautiful, and Semjaza felt very much at home. He paused on the threshold of a room full of equipment he could not begin to understand, watching as Azazel pressed buttons and typed on keypads. He could feel the discreet swirl of Azazel’s power as well and smiled to himself as he watched.

“I am creating papers and an identity for you, my liege,” Azazel said without turning. “You will need these things to move around freely.”

Semjaza nodded, even though Azazel was not looking at him. “I understand. What is to be my identity to satisfy the curious?”

“You are Doctor Shem Ya’azhar, professor emeritus of Middle Eastern antiquities and history at the University of Aleppo. You were born in Iraq, in Bagdad, in the middle of the Seventy Years War and fought for a time before returning to studies. During an attack on the University of Damascus, where you finished your degree, most of the buildings and records were destroyed, so you have new ones made from partial records.” Azazel turned and shot Semjaza a grin. “It is a part of the world that we have used for our own identity papers before, with great success.”

“I see.” Semjaza laughed softly. “I suppose that I would be an expert in such a field, after all.”