We Will All Go Down Together (45 page)

Blandina cuts her deft way through those who linger, a blessed blade in either hand—sparing anything that bleeds red and hamstringing anything that doesn’t, neat as any surgeon, while Cecilia and the rest field the ones she kicks aside. She is a pleasure to watch work even for me, and I have seen far more than my due share of suffering.

All the while, I hear Mother Eulalia praying under her breath: calling on the contradictorily titled Saint Michael Archangel, Heaven’s foremost assassin, in her sister-daughters’ hour of need. A comfortless mantra, breathed hot through slaughter.

Amen, amen. Phantom bells tolling through the thick air, grating painful against my Maker’s faith-scarred skin. Blandina barely seems to hear them, though she moves to their beat, as if choreographed; they hook her muscles taut, loft her step, suffuse and encircle her with a core-hot protection that both cheers and wounds. It forms a shield for my siblings to break themselves against, severed or transfixed at the disinterested pleasure of He who made not only the board, not only the pieces on it, but the universe both board and pieces exist inside.

A thin thread of extra longing winds upward, meanwhile, raising Eulalia’s prayers all the higher: Anchoress Kentigerna’s contribution to the cause, wafting nerve-thin from the pit she squats in. That concrete cocoon from which she hopes to break, remade, and enter through those gates such as I can never even hope to glimpse, let alone approach . . . 

Blandina is almost at the back, now. She can see my Maker, its long legs crossed, watching her carve her way through its offspring. Bleak and blazing in its barely there outfit, hair like a singing flame, eyes like lit glass. Penemue Grigorim, sower of language and artifice, for whom the word “exquisite” is nothing but a dull, crude insult. And now I am close enough to hear her thoughts: a memory of Maccabee Roke, telling her the real reason angels, as Rainer Maria Rilke tells us, are so terrible—

“Because they’re evil? Ugly? Because whatever the Bible tells us they are, they’re not?”

“No, B. Just the opposite. Because they’re
so
beautiful, they ruin you for anything else.”

Lovely as a weapon, as a curse; yes, that is Penemue. Lovely as the very living breath of God.

It could never get away with half the things it regularly does, were it not.

As Blandina turns her swords our Maker’s way at last, my eldest sibling throws himself in front of her, only to find a blade piercing his throat. Something indefinite exits from him through the eyes, plunging sharply downwards to dissolve against the floor. The illusion of Penemue’s face observes this, but does not seem to react.

:Atia Rusk,:
it names her.
:I expected you sooner.:

Blandina pulls her sword free of my eldest sibling’s wreckage, already curling in on itself, drawing a puff of desiccated blood-dust. Correcting, as she does:
“It’s Blandina—Sister Blandina. One name and a title. Not that hard.”

:Yes, little zealot, I know. But it was as Atia our paths first crossed, yes?:

“So you do remember.”

Penemue nods in my direction.
:Why not?:
it asks.
:I have him to recall his mother’s face to me.:

This, then, is how
we
first meet. Blandina knows me at once, both from the security feed at Curia and her own images of Ronni Louvin, so well-loved—but that does not make her stare any less pitiless, or make her judge me any more worthy of mercy.

:One could call him your cousin, I suppose,:
Penemue muses.
:A useful term.:

“He’s nothing to me. None of them are.”

:Oh, I believe you have been told differently, and not too long gone, either.:

Blandina blinks, and again, her thoughts nudge mine, hearing Mac Roke explain: “. . . 
all monsters descend from the Grigorim, through their Nephilim: witches and warlocks, psionics, weres, vampires, the Fae. . . .
”

:I know where all my seed is sown,:
Penemue tells her,
:in its combinations, even unto its last generation. For even as Alizoun Rusk was Nephilim-born, at least in part, so too are you, no matter that you may have sworn yourself to
my
old master, the Maker of All.:

“What makes you think I’m interested? Faith is
my
shield. I don’t have any magic—never did, never will.”

:Are you so sure? You have lived a long time for one of your Order—survived incredible things, all but unwounded, when others fell about you. Fought toe to toe with horrors, made them fear your name. . . .:

“
His
name. Only His.”

:So you say. But if you claim you do not enjoy your reputation, you are a liar—and lying is a sin.:

Blandina and Penemue speak quickly, voices low, while Sister Cecilia and the others continue to fight their way forward. Behind Penemue’s back, Mother Eulalia has just entered with fresh troops; she is less than a stride away, mouthing orders Blandina probably does not see, but Cecilia certainly does:
Stop, desist, disengage.

Time is ticking; someone may have called the real police, the real fire department. These incursions need to be brief by nature, and to leave no trace behind.

“Enough about me,”
Blandina tells my Maker.
“Time to go, Watcher-no-more. We took a poll—you are very much
not
wanted.”

:We both know you cannot do me harm.:

Blandina smiles.
“Not directly,”
she says.

And looks at me again.

:You think to denude me of my Host? I can always make more.:

“Not here, though. Or I kill each and every one of them, starting with him, and leave you to walk out of here alone.”

:Your Ronni would be truly dead, then. All lingering trace of her gone from this world, never to return.:

“She’s dead no matter what I do, so
make your call
.”

Penemue laughs outright, a shaken ice-bell trill—something I have seldom heard, but often enough to know it presages nothing good.

:I can do far worse things than kill you,:
it tells her, rising.
:You think you understand, but you do not. If you insult me further, I will do them all and revel in it.:

Blandina nods.
“Then stop talking and show me,”
she says.

As she speaks, Penemue is already in motion, so fast it slips between microseconds to occupy virtually the same space she does, very atoms turning sidelong until it is nothing but light and empty space. One hand solidifies around Blandina’s left wrist and flexes with a bone-break snap. The other arm plunges shoulder-deep through chest and ribage, barely missing her spine; its fingers emerge to curl around her hip, pulling her closer. One sword falls, the other droops, as Pememue’s glorious lips descend—that glowing mouth whose touch refts soul from body, tears grace in half, and spawns such as myself from the debris.

Blandina fights with all her considerable strength, but it makes no difference. She grates out a prayer that covers her own lips in protective mesh, only to see it spark and wither apart against the force of Penemue’s breath.

:He thought, and we appeared, the first among all,:
my Maker has told us, often enough.
:This is why nothing we have done, or do, can separate us so far from Him that his Word can be used against us.:
But though none of us ever doubted it spoke truth, this is the first time I have ever seen the claim tested.

Most people do not fight an angel, not if they know what they face. Most people would not dare to try.

Cecilia starts forward, only to meet my grasp halfway; I grapple her down, kicking, and press her to my breast. So it is Mother Eulalia who bridges the gap instead, twisting herself between them—Mother Eulalia who takes Penemue’s kiss like a bullet, single eye rolling back, overtaken too quickly to see her predicament draw the scream mere bodily pain never could from Blandina’s lips.

The bliss of union is two-way, as ever. It distracts Penemue, letting Blandina slip free, her right-hand blade still tight-clutched, wet face intent. Her other wrist now limp-hanging, she levers herself up, raises the sword as Penemue stays crouched over Mother Eulalia, joined at the jaws; its halo spreads and thickens ’til it covers them both, like some sort of caul. Then humps up, an amoeba caught in mid-split, releasing a flesh-wrapped shard of Mother Eulalia’s raped soul to float free, like spume. . . .

Thin crying spikes, muffled, mewling. My newest sibling, mourning for its own birth.

Pinned beneath me, Cecilia—only now realizing what has taken place—flails and shrieks, bucking so hard she knocks her own head on the floor. Mother Eulalia’s chest pops, air-starved, ecstasy-smothered. And Sister Blandina thrusts her blade through the new-thrown Nephilim, pinning it to the wall—s
tabs into it, and watches it shrivel.

Lucky,
I think. And let my hold on Cecilia slip, rising to meet Blandina with arms outstretched.

Later, recuperating, Blandina could only see the rest in snatches. Penemue Grigorim looking up, not quite startled, finally roused from its repast; Ronni’s “son” under Blandina’s sword, pinned like a bug. That
thing
its attentions had ripped from Mother Eulalia, first and last breath still lung-caught, already drying to dust.

:Great woman of renown, martial papesse,:
the Watcher angel named her, mockingly.
:Crusader, amongst crusaders.:

Those titles, which she’d always craved, like garbage in that moon-pure mouth. Like ashes in hers.

:Only a monster can hunt monsters—you know that, now. As Maccabee Roke always did.:

“Wasn’t for things like you, there wouldn’t
be
any monsters,” Blandina told it, throat raw, leaning on her weapon. Trying not to look down, for fear of seeing the last few traces of Ronni’s sweet face crumble away.

:Yet God made
us,
too—a conundrum. Or a mistake, perhaps?:

“God makes no mistakes.”

:Well, then.:

A massive perfumed sigh enveloped Blandina, forcing her eyes closed; some great pinion gliding by, barely brushing her cheek. She would find a caress turned cut there, when she finally thought to look—infection-bright, already keloiding. And then Penemue was gone, leaving only that scar behind.

At her feet, Mother Eulalia turned on her side, vomiting feebly. Behind them both, Cecilia was weeping openly, pitched forwards on hands and knees, too laid low to even attempt to rise.

“That should’ve been me,” she said, over and over. “That should’ve been me.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Blandina told her. “If it should’ve, it would’ve.”

God makes no mistakes.

I have to think that.

Her own tears scalded, unshed.

“The Ordo is yours,” Mother Eulalia told her, through the wall. “As we both knew it would be, one day.”

“Yes, Mother,” Blandina said.

A hollow sketch of the older woman’s laugh reached her, pithed by Penemue’s kiss. “I know I can trust you to do your duty,
Mother
Blandina,” she corrected her, gently. “Diligent as you’ve been, especially in war.”

Blandina swallowed, mouth dry. “Not always so obedient, though,” she said.

“Not always, no. But more often than I expected.”

Blandina spread the concrete and slid the last brick in herself. It was the least she could do, considering; they had two anchoresses now, and that was her fault, if anyone’s.

Cecilia was in her cell, praying—ostensibly preparing for her final vows, but Blandina wasn’t convinced. A wound to the faith could fester faster than almost any other sort of injury, especially if left untreated.

“I’m going out,” she told the front desk’s minder. “You have my number. Anything comes up, just ring through.”

“Yes, Mother. May I say where you’ve gone?”

Blandina paused a moment, wondering if she should prevaricate, then decided there wasn’t much point. “Curia,” she replied, shortly. “To see Mac Roke.”

“Oh,” the sister said, taken aback. “Is that . . . wise?”

Probably not,
Blandina thought.

“Is anything?” she replied.

The trip seemed longer than usual. When Roke saw her face, however, he bit down hard on whatever quip he might’ve had brewing, a show of restraint Blandina was annoyed to find herself appreciating, if only for the second and a half it took him to glance down at her hand and see the ring. His shoulders tightened, visibly, as the realization hit.

You loved her too, once,
Blandina was mildly surprised to recall.
Of course you did.

“Mother. . . .” he greeted her, voice carefully schooled.

“Roke.”

“That’s me,” he agreed. Then added, stepping aside to let her in: “Glad to see
some
things don’t change.”

He didn’t mention her cast, for which she was also grateful. The verdict had been predictable; it would pain her, likely for the rest of her life, off and on. But one day, she
would
wield both swords again, sooner than some might like to think.