The Darkly Luminous Fight for Persephone Parker (30 page)

He charged suddenly back down the aisle, his torn robes
flapping. Centre stage, the sullied red fabric that reeked of dog urine and Darkness’s inanimate bones were a blaze of blue light, burning merrily like a hearth fire, and some Guards lingered on to watch and warm themselves in vengeance’s glow. With a warlike bellow, a terrible sound of grief, Alexi sent the last of his power, wave after wave of lightning, magic, energy, again and again into the remains, as if the more he could just keep pummeling it, the more he could ensure it could never hurt anyone again. But he could not make it right.

Percy ran down to him, stumbling in her own weakness as she did, Michael darting in to take her by the arm. Alexi’s Guard assembled but hung back, knowing they didn’t dare try to stop him.

He kept striking until he fell to his knees. Percy rushed to take him in her arms, which found new strength in holding him. Her body muffled his heaving sobs. The blue bonfire of Darkness died down, its fuel gone and the conflagration having faded to flickering sapphire embers.

A wind picked up in the room, as did an ancient music, a heavenly balm. A murmur sounded, as the thick cerulean flames, entwined within every collected Guard, coalesced into enormous wings, an ephemeral and angelic form that was awesome in beauty and fearsome in masculine strength. “It is finished,” the great angel whispered in all ears, hearts and veins.

The vision floated out the door, and Alexi somehow found the strength to tear off after it, breathing heavily, moving awkwardly. His Guard obediently up and followed. Upstairs to that sacred seal they ran, chasing the divine bonfire until it swirled over the motto of Athens, sparkling above the dictum of their Work before diving down into the image to rest, settling once more into the stone. With lingering licks of flame and then stillness, Athens was again mere bricks of a normal mortal school, settled solidly on foundations no longer precarious between worlds.

The six survivors turned and beheld their mass of spectral fellows, whose work was done. Each had destinations, desires, duties, and they wanted to go about them. But first they wished to pay respects. They wafted forward, filing before Percy and Alexi, bowing or nodding.

Dimly Percy registered what words she was offered. She was told by a few leaders and Hearts that her child would prove important. And while Percy’s instincts told her that this was most certainly true, all Percy cared was that her husband and child were alive.

Beatrice floated forward from the crowd, her face troubled. “I did mean to tell you that I would have liked to have fought more at your side, my lady. But I needed to find and fight with my Guard—at least, the three of us who are now spirits.”

“I believe you’ve fought at my side often enough,” Percy murmured.

“True.” Beatrice smiled. Her quiet, stoic husband was still present, and she took his hand and pressed it lovingly in both of hers. She gestured him forward, attempting again to present him.

“Hello, my lady. Ibrahim Tipton at your service,” he said in a rich Arabian accent. “Raised by an Englishman, I learned to appreciate certain aspects of the country you’ve chosen as your own. I am glad to have had a part in fighting for you here, then and now.” She sensed he was making peace with his past in this brief introduction.

“Hello, Mr. Tipton—and thank you,” she murmured, sharing Beatrice’s smile. “And where will all of you go? I pray you will go on toward Peace!”

Beatrice’s lips thinned. “Some didn’t make it safely onward this day. Some of us were overwhelmed, dragged back under into the despairing depths, back across the river. Some of these Guard will take to that realm again, to rescue their friends who fell. Some may choose to remain always vigilant. I cannot say. But most of us will go to Peace. Long
awaited, and far from here…Peace. I’ve no idea what it will be like, but I’ve never anticipated anything so much as this blessed day.”

Behind Beatrice, another figure broke ranks. A thin man in dark robes with skin that must have been darker in life and a face so engaging it was hard to look away floated toward Percy. In Arabic he said, “While this war is at an end, keep your heart open to the world, my lady. You never know what battles your lineage may face, in the air, in the ground…Don’t forget us. And don’t close
every
door.”

While the words themselves might have an ominous cast, the man, clearly the Heart of his group, was so full of peace, assurance and love that Percy couldn’t find any fear. He bowed and spun back to Ibrahim, clasping his friend’s arm.

Beatrice spoke. “Don’t mind Ahmed. He’s always been full of tall, albeit brilliant, words. You, my lady, deserve a lifetime of peace. Please take it, for the worst is blessedly over. If Darkness is ever to manifest again, the good news is you’re mortal and it won’t be in your lifetime. And the cycle of the vendetta, at least, is at last broken. Good-bye, my friends. Good Work, and peace be ever with you.”

“And also with you,” Percy murmured. “Thank you for everything you did to bring me here. I’m sure it’s been far more than I can fathom.”

Beatrice paused. “Our Lady said before she took form that she hoped she’d have the good sense to thank me.” She smiled. “She’d be pleased you’re so sensible. And kind. She’d be most pleased by that. And by the man who adores you.”

Percy turned to Alexi and took his hand. Only when staring at Percy did the pain in her husband’s eyes ease. She turned back, but Beatrice and her Guard were gone. The remaining Guards bowed and filed down the stairs.

The air of Athens was sweetly restive; every hell-raising spirit was gone to oblivion or flung to the outer darkness. The press of dread was lifted from their veins, their minds
clear in the stark dawn light. Only grief remained, and none of them was sure what to do.

Michael gestured toward the trail of pilgrimlike spirits leading down toward the chapel. “Come,” he suggested. “Let us follow.”

Alexi nodded. “I will bring Jane’s body.”

Carrying her, it felt like a funerary procession. The Guards directly ahead of them, some in buckskin and feathers, some in ballooning pants and curving hats, were consoling one another. Clearly one of their number had not made it to his peaceful moment. A greyish spirit that would have been a ruddy-skinned woman pressed her hands to her breast, raising high, keening notes into the air that only Percy heard. By the mourner’s side, a man wearing a wolf skin placed an arm around her shoulder, the feathers in his hair fluttering with the tiniest remainders of flickering blue flame. War, no matter how unusual, had its costs.

Soft pledges were made, vengeances were declared, and above all companionship was renewed, the one constant of their Work. Only Percy heard, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. She was utterly struck by the weight of her own mortality, far from the shifting and everlasting forms of any divinity. Each moment was increasingly precious to her, and each moment urged her never to take even the slightest bit of life for granted. Her hand pressed to her abdomen, she closed her eyes and gave a thousand thanks, the rosary beads against her chest picking up the echo and flooding her soul with blessings.

As they passed Rebecca’s office, en route to the chapel, the headmistress gestured Percy inside. There Percy found Marianna laid unconscious in a chair, her face peaceful. She rushed forward and kissed her friend softly on the forehead.

“We’ll move her to the infirmary promptly,” Rebecca promised, and held out her hand. “Now you should rejoin the others.”

Percy took Rebecca’s outstretched hand and brought it to her lips. “I cannot thank you enough. For everything.”

Rebecca swallowed. “My duty and my pleasure.”

They moved in silence to the chapel.

Alexi had laid Jane upon the tomb of Athens’s founder, careful to keep her covered, as none of them would be able to see her face without breaking down. He held out his hand for Percy, his gaze sharpening upon the sight of her. Only when she moved to his side were their bodies able to stop shaking, each the other’s foundation. He kissed her forehead. She murmured her love and he kissed her again, a tear dripping onto her cheek.

The procession of the spirit Guards filed down into the space sacred to them all, finally released to their private destinies. The living watched. Michael reminded his companions to breathe by moving slowly past them, one by one, putting a hand to their constricted throats.

When the last of The Guard vanished into the darkness, Elijah, Josephine, Rebecca and Michael were suddenly tugged forward, something pulling from inside their bodies and snapping out of them. Wispy, shimmering forms more angel than human floated before them, nodded, blew kisses, sparkling with song and soulful splendour. These collective possessors, these Muses they’d never faced, never known as friends or personalities, only as incumbent powers, were now separate entities. Their indescribable faces full of pride, they moved close to their instruments and touched each cheek with adoration.

“With you we are greatly pleased. Now rest, beloveds,” they said. “We’re all due for a nice rest.” Then, in unison, the divinities flew ahead.

Percy expected them to duck inside the portal, but instead the quartet held out their hands just before it. The portal snapped shut, and the Muses sighed with weary relief. They wanted no part of the Whisper-world, it seemed.
They did not suit, Percy admitted. So it was no surprise when the four heavenly forms flew back over The Guard’s heads and followed the same course as the Phoenix fire, on toward the centre of the building, divine friends intending to rest together once more, settling back into the stalwart bricks of Athens Academy.

The school chapel sat white and quiet. The amber stained-glass angels along the wall had lost their ethereal glow and looked now like average windows. The silence was, to Percy, after all the raucous spiritual noise, deafening.

Alexi waved a tired gesture toward the altar. One candle sputtered to a low flame, but that was it. He stared at his hand.

Tensing, he cast that powerful arm forward again, expecting the portal to their sacred space to open again as it always had under his command. The altar remained a plain space bathed in white cloth, nothing supernatural about it.

“They’re gone. Does that mean we are finished?” Michael breathed.

“I…” Rebecca searched her own mind. “I don’t have my library. My mind doesn’t have its resources.”

“Damn,” Elijah muttered. “It will be so much more difficult to get away with things.”

Josephine smirked, but then suddenly her eyes widened. “I wonder if the British Museum will take down my art. Will its protective charms have worn off?”

Alexi pursed his lips. “You spend your lives complaining about the Work, and now, when you’re released—”

“Well, I complain about you to no end, Alexi. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t miss the very hell out of you if you were gone. It is the way of love,” Elijah said, his brow furrowing.

Rebecca shook her head. “We’re such mortals in the end. Never satisfied. But you have your café, Josie, and your art. Michael, the church. Elijah, your…”

“Wealth and ill manners,” he was quick to offer. “Outlasting
even the very face of death. Oh, and I have Josie. That’s something, I suppose.”

She swatted happily at his shoulder.

“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. She turned to Alexi and looked him in the eye. “And you, Alexi, have Percy, this school, and…your child. Congratulations.”

Alexi drew Percy close. Percy opened her mouth to offer Rebecca her blessings, but something in the headmistress’s expression stilled her.

“I…” Rebecca said. Her hand moved unconsciously toward Michael. Staring down at it, he blushed. While his gift might have vanished, his smile was still magic, and he reached out for her. Rebecca seemed to come to herself, though, as if she’d forgotten she was not alone. She cleared her throat. “I have the blessed bricks of Athens.”

Her eyes flickered toward Jane’s draped body. Her hand did not make contact with Michael’s; instead, she moved inexorably toward the body, her face betraying more emotion than she’d ever before let show.

“And Jane has…” Josephine tried, her voice breaking.

“The hand of her longtime love, and the peace of eternal life,” Michael spoke up. He’d followed Rebecca a few paces but respectfully kept his distance.

They all stared at the black-draped body atop the antechamber tomb. Powers or no, spirits or no, that their living circle was incomplete was an irrevocable fact. Rebecca placed a hand on either side of Jane’s covered head, and her tall spine bent, weighted, and shuddered as silent tears poured down her face. “Dear God,” she gasped to the body, her shaking hand hovering over the Irishwoman’s head as if wanting to touch but not wanting to feel the solidity of death beneath her fingertips. “Dear God, it should have been me.”

There was a terrible silence. Everyone stood stunned. Michael clenched his fists, his hopeful face stricken. He stepped toward her. “Rebecca, you mustn’t—”

She snapped jarringly into her usual stiff pose, clapped her hands together and swiftly wiped her eyes. “I think we ought to clean the auditorium,” she said, her head high, crossing between them and toward the door. “And then I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

Deep below London, a few clusters of bones still bobbed along sewer eddies, unfortunate escapees that hadn’t gone unnoticed by all Londoners. Amid small remembrances and other scraps of sentiment, a few sealed jars, small and round, floated out along the Thames. Their contents hissed and rattled.

Surging onward into the estuary, the jars swept out into the North Sea and, facing the English Channel, bobbed onward toward the shores of France, gaining momentum.