Seven Archangels: Annihilation (13 page)

There was something to just standing here, surrounded in a place he'd managed to work his way into but that had no path out. In this half-magic night he could be fully present, breathing the spice, dwelling in God's presence, feeding the world's largest mosquito, hearing the full spectrum of life that had multiplied to fill this world of wonders. Back home there were worried faces and an impossible task and the hollowness of something he knew to be true but would deny and deny until he had no choice but to accept.

Gabriel—

He struck forward again, forcing back the brambles as he moved, random snapping sounds in his wake. Gabriel wasn't getting better, maybe never would, but if he had it in him, even for a second longer, he'd keep the Cherub alive. Giving up was not an option because Gabriel was Gabriel, and what would the universe be without him? A bell without a clapper, or a dry engine, a barren fig tree, that was what. An old stream bed waiting for floods decades after the land had gone to the desert, or a ship at the bottom of the Mediterranean longing to set sail again. And that—

No, that mustn't ever happen, because not even God could set right something of that magnitude, and Remiel had dealt with the pain, but how could he?

The Cherub couldn't love or serve God from beyond the grave.

Raphael's soul vibrated like a grand piano with all its keys struck simultaneously.

As he struck through a low bush, something wrapped around his face.

He pushed back at it, but then he felt it grip his arms like a dozen tiny hooks. Back he pulled, but it tautened.

"Hey!" He twisted, and now it gripped his legs, the thorns embedded in his jeans. He couldn't kick free, and his arms were drawn fast by the brambles. Leaves stuck to his face, and when he shook his head to dislodge them, the vines constricted around his shoulders.

Full-blown panic set in. Thrashing, Raphael blew back into his angelic form only to find the vines and brambles and thorns still holding him. He summoned his sword, but against vines that now enwrapped his forearms with a strangling tension, he couldn't bring it to bear. The ones around his neck threatened to crush his windpipe. He ignited into a blue-white flame, trying to consume them, but they wouldn't burn.

"God!"

Jesus was right in front of him, looking him directly in the eyes. "Stop struggling!"

Raphael tried, but the vines stayed tight, and he wanted to get out of here, get free, get away—

"Stop!" Jesus said. "Be still!"

It was the same voice that had commanded the waves, and it commanded Raphael too. He was still.

As he stopped fighting, the vines relaxed, and Raphael found them letting go. The grip slacked off, and Jesus was able to make them loosen so he could work free.

He turned to Jesus, shaking.

"Remember," Jesus said, and then he was gone.

Chapter Nine

Camael had found the ice fields and their barren fury, wind and sleet above and frozen heartlessness below. Motionless for a moment, he began to be coated in the stinging ice.

Beelzebub found him there and shouted a command—come back with me. This Camael ignored. Beelzebub might be a Seraph and Satan's number-two guy, but what was that after all? The number two bully in a world of bullies.

Beelzebub struck him, and Camael turned golden-speckled eyes on him.
I feel nothing. I feel nothing.

The sleet coated his hair and eyelashes. Camael could hardly see.

Beelzebub pounded the message into his heart the way a Roman had pounded a nail into Jesus's feet:
Come with me!

This time Camael went. They landed in the dark of Beelzebub's chamber in the lab area.

"Why would you go there?" Beelzebub snorted. "It's worse than the Lake of Fire."

Camael pursed his mouth in defiance as the ice melted off his body and collected into a puddle at his feet. No one else had been at the ice fields. Wherever Gabriel was now, it would be lonely and without warmth too. The ice fields had seemed as good a place as any.

"I heard about the little show you put on in the common area. Everyone has. That was just about the stupidest thing you could have done. I protected you," Beelzebub added, a hungry growl that made his "altruism" sound like the appetizer of a fine dinner for which Camael would be picking up the check. "Asmodeus wanted your skull on a pike, but I think even he was a little amused by the discomfort it caused our lord. You just keep that in mind, and keep your head down."

Camael shrugged. "I knew you'd cover for me. You want me intact."

After a blind standoff, Beelzebub said, "I covered Mephistopheles. You I would let Lucifer chew up and spit into the Lake of Fire. The fallout was going to come on him, and no one disgraces my Cherub."

"Have it your way." Camael flared heat through his hair to resettle it. "Are you quite through, or should I fall at your feet to grovel my thanks?"

"Spare me. I've got an assignment for you." Beelzebub shifted in the darkness; he probably took a seat, but Camael couldn't be sure. "Our lord wants to pick out his next victim. You're to go to the surface to hunt out lone angels—any of the Seven, or any of the choir heads. When you find one, report back."

Camael heated the last of the water from his skin.
I feel nothing.

Beelzebub said, "It's ridiculous to start scanning when we're not ready to try another one, but that's Lucifer's order. Asmodeus has agreed to keep a lookout as well, and you don't want him suddenly proving useful after all this time."

Camael snickered. "As if."

"You see through him. I don't think
he
does."

Smirking, Camael folded his arms. "I think he does. I think he just knows how much Asmodeus irritates you."

Silence from Beelzebub. Camael flashed to the gates of Hell, signed out, and went to Earth.

Lone members of the Seven.

Do I count?

Remiel spread her wings to hover in the sunlight over Antarctica, ice like mica shimmering on the gold feathers. The frigid air kept her aloft, and she let it penetrate: not as rude as the ice fields, just a gentle honest cold for her dishonest hot heart.

I want to go home. I feel nothing.

Remiel descended, letting her wings fill as she glided to the crunchy surface.
I want to go home.
At home, everyone could be sad together, and maybe no one would say Gabriel was dead because she hadn't been good enough to prevent it. But she wondered if they'd know, the same way everyone knew Camael had fallen, and since Camael had fallen that meant she was flawed too and had only survived the winnowing by chance. And now here she was, Camael herself, and there wasn't really a difference.

Prayer would answer everything—would confirm the worst in one horrid moment as possibility collapsed into an eternal reality about which she could do nothing. So why pray? Until she reached out for God and God provided an answer, Gabriel both existed and didn't exist in a bizarre contortion of quantum theory, the same way she could be both Camael and not Camael. Why become fully one or the other, fully grieving, fully fallen, fully a failure? Life on the dividing line would require the most precise dance she'd ever demanded of herself, but then again, precision came easily when you had to cut parts of yourself away from other parts. She could continue this way: it was all an elaborate game of pretend.

An elaborate game of pretend. Pretend who you are. Pretend Gabriel still exists. Pretend your deception had any effect whatsoever. Pretend God still loves you.

Sensing a question sent to her, she startled at a friendly soul's touch. Before considering the consequences, she sent a reply.

Saraquael appeared at her side. "I'm so glad you're safe." He hugged her so tightly he squeezed her armor, and she grabbed him as if holding onto a life preserver. With her eyes closed, she tried to put down her guard, tried to feel at least relief.

"Hey, you're okay." He patted her back, then pulled away. "They didn't discover you."

She looked at herself, still wearing Camael's armor and Camael's hard features. It was a wonder Saraquael could stand to touch her at all.

After a momentary silence, Saraquael said, "I was surprised you didn't come straight home."

"How could I?" Her voice cracked. "What they did—might do again— It's all an elaborate game of pretend this way."

"Wholesale pretending." Saraquael looked at the snow dusted over his boots. "On the brink of a lie but not quite, never entirely establishing the truth."

She shook her head, swallowing against the moment—Saraquael might
tell
her, might bring down the duality and kill Gabriel in her heart forever. She blurted, "It's crazy down there. It's one big party for the lower orders, and the top tier is backstabbing and outmaneuvering one another continuously." She stared at Camael's sword lashed to her side. "They're all wondering if there's going to be a funeral for Gabriel."

"Yeah," Saraquael murmured. "I'm wondering the same thing."

I feel nothing.

Saraquael raised his head. "I'm afraid I need to ask you to go back in."

Remiel went mask-faced.

"We think parts of Gabriel might have been left behind in the room where they did it."

"There weren't," Camael said. "I was in there."

"It might be subtle, like beads of mercury or a glaze on the walls." Saraquael rubbed his chin. "We need you to look again."

Camael gazed off at the white glare of sky on snow.
I feel nothing.
"I'll do it. But there's nothing."

"Thanks." Saraquael put his hands in his pockets. "Have you found out their next move?"

"They sent me out here looking for archangels who are alone. Any of the Seven or any of the heads of choirs."

"I don't count, I hope?" Saraquael chuckled. "I'm with you."

Camael forced a laugh, touching the hilt of Camael's ever-present sword with gauntleted hands. On a regular basis, he realized, Camael couldn't feel his own sword.
I feel nothing.

"I'll let Michael know," Saraquael said. "From now on we'll travel in pairs or greater."

Remiel used to be a pair all by herself. "How is Raphael coping?"

"Badly." Saraquael's eyes dimmed. "But he's doing whatever he can."

"It stinks," Camael said.

Saraquael sent his agreement.

Camael turned away. "You'd better go. I don't want you seen if Beelzebub is spying on me to make sure I'm not double-crossing him while he's double-crossing me."

"It sounds like you need a scorecard to keep track," Saraquael said just before vanishing.

Camael grabbed the hilt of his sword, spread his wings, and resumed a patrol for angels he hoped not to find.

- + -

Uriel came home to find Jesus rocking Gabriel in a chair that hadn't been there earlier.

Uriel bowed, projecting thanks. Jesus inclined his head.

"Raphael needed some time to connect with others." Uriel gestured toward Gabriel. "Are you going to heal him?"

"The job is yours."

Uriel pivoted slightly aside. "I was hoping you'd changed your mind."

The Throne walked to the next room and leaned against the wall.

Jesus followed.

"I was wondering, maybe when he's done with that sling, if I could crawl into it too." Raking back unruly hair, Uriel said, "It's daunting. He's a mess."

Jesus looked grim.

Uriel went further into the room, which unlike Gabriel's room here or Gabriel's own private spot in Heaven (naturally it was a library) was outfitted casually. The furniture consisted of a rainbow of cushions and a low table. Not a straight-backed chair had entered the walls before Uriel had summoned them for Gabriel's room. Chimes hung from the ceiling, and bead-curtains divided the alcoves off the main room.

Uriel sprawled on one of the cushions, then gave a sigh. Jesus settled on the one adjacent, and Uriel moved closer to lean against his leg. "How have we done so far?"

"You've made all the correct calls."

Uriel remained silent.

A bird sang through one of the open windows, and Jesus spoke back to it, coaxing a smile from the angel. The pillows took Uriel's weight enough for the Throne to enjoy the human warmth of him so near, and shortly the angel's pseudo-heartbeat matched his. A wave of weariness broke through Uriel, ignored strain that had pitted the surface of Uriel's strength.

Jesus touched Uriel's hair. "The work is delicate, but I know you're capable."

Uriel's eyes stayed closed, but all Jesus's words penetrated, and the images he sent approximated the work that had to be done. The way Jesus explained it, Gabriel had been "unlaced" and Uriel needed to thread everything back together again. Raphael's undifferentiated healing power had made everything stronger, but eventually what was needed was very directed, needle-fine soul-work to rejoin every part of Gabriel to every other part.

Uriel marveled at the magnitude of stitching together a soul.

Jesus explained the way the interior of an angel fit together like puzzle pieces or grooved beads on a string, so the task wouldn't be as impossible as actually forming a soul. Where parts were missing, Jesus assured Uriel some regrowth could take place if only a small segment any particular "bead" was there, but what could not be regrown were entire "beads" or the string itself.

Uriel shuddered.

Jesus said, "It's not as easy as fitting together cardboard puzzle pieces, but not as hard as fitting together the molecules that make up the cardboard."

"You'll have to help me."

"I'll be with you," Jesus said, "but the work is yours."

Uriel lay against his arm and reached up to touch the bundle that was Gabriel, imagining the business of relacing a friend. Drifting, Uriel thought about what might be found there. No secrets, but perhaps unrestrained emotions or thoughts Gabriel might not want anyone to handle. They'd already been awash in Gabriel's memories once, and now Uriel wondered if Gabriel might resent it if they succeeded, how all his most private self had been so transparent to his rescuers.