A Rosary of Stones and Thorns Read online

  The angel gathered in a shuddering breath, lifting wet eyes to the mug. “What… what is it?”

  “It’s hot cocoa. It’s soothing, warm. Drink.”

  “We don’t need to drink that often….”

  “Well, you need to drink now. Please, just take it.”

  Rolling her lower lip beneath her teeth, she nodded and wrapped her small hands around the mug. Her first sip appeared to agree with her, and the flicker of a pink tongue-tip appeared over her lip, wiping away the foam.

  Stephen sat with one elbow braced against the coffee table, pressing backward on it to keep it from rocking. He stared resolutely at the fire, listening as her irregular breathing steadied. He closed his eyes. Of all the people in the world, he would have had to be the one to discover an angel, he who had run to the priesthood in defiance of God.

  God, Stephen decided, had a wicked sense of humor.

  “My name is Asrial,” she said.

  He glanced at her face; she was staring at the fire, lashes lowered over glowing eyes. “Asrial,” he repeated. He cleared his throat. “I… hadn’t thought there to be female angels. In… in Heaven.”

  “Why not?” she asked, her voice still brittle. She looked at him, delicate brows arched.

  “There’s no mention of them in the Bible.”

  “The Bible?”

  Stephen did stare at her, then. “The book by which we know God. The one written by the prophets and apostles. You know, the people who actually talked to God and Jesus Christ, and angels.”

  “Oh.” One of Asrial’s thin shoulders lifted in a sort of shrug; her wing moved fluidly in conjunction. “I knew that some of our number had been to Earth, but I didn’t know humans had written about it.”

  “And you know nothing of the Son of God.”

  Her polite gaze continued to rest on him. “He came to men, not to angels. Why would I?”

  “Why indeed,” Stephen managed after a moment of complete shock. He cleared his throat and sought his bearings. “So why did you drop into my backyard, if I may?”

  “I didn’t drop,” Asrial said haughtily, and then hesitated. “I Fell.”

  “Fell? From Heaven?” Stephen sat up, leaving his mug on the table. “You’re not…one of Hell’s, are you?”

  “No!” She cringed. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t think so? Don’t you know those things?” He had no idea how to read her body language. Her wings added an element he couldn’t intuit and her face and motions conflicted so utterly he couldn’t tell if she was angry or miserable or confused or contemptuous, or all of them at once.

  “If I would have Fallen to his level, I would be in Hell right now, not on Earth,” Asrial said, her voice growing more certain.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I… I don’t know!”

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning, then,” Stephen said. As her mouth tightened and she looked away, he added, “You might as well. I need to know if I’m going to help you at all.”

  “I don’t need—“

  “Don’t you?” he interrupted.

  He could read her face then: crestfallen, with her chin sinking toward her chest. “You are human.”

  “And you’re an angel. We’ve established that much… keep going.” Asrial glanced at him, and Stephen spread his hands. “It’s a joke! Please. Go on.”

  “I made the Archangel angry by suggesting that God had mercy for… for the Great Betrayer.”

  “He does?” Stephen asked, realizing suddenly she could have asked God directly.

  “Oh, He must. I found a place where all the halos of the Fallen ones are still waiting, kept living. Why are they kept, if not against the day they may reclaim them?”

  “Kept… living?”

  “Oh!” She lifted her hands. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  “Bear with me, lady. I’m a fallible mortal, you know.”

  She stopped and eyed him and he grinned. Wrinkling her nose, Asrial said, “Halos are… well, a kind of living extension of your soul. They can’t ordinarily exist apart from you.”

  “So you found the repository for the halos of all of Hell’s denizens and decided this meant that God would one day gather them back to His breast,” Stephen said. “And then… you told the Archangel and it upset him. Did you know it would upset him?”

  “Well… I suppose.”

  “Why did you tell him, then?”

  Asrial blinked her great golden eyes: the first time, he realized, that she had. “Because he was talking of coming to Earth to make war on them.”

  Stephen’s hand blindly groped for the mug, dragged it back into reach. He wished there was something stronger in it. “Pardon?”

  "War," she repeated. "The final battle. As was inevitable. Surely even humans know about that?"

  "Not that part," Stephan said. "The 'on Earth' part."

  “Oh!" she said. "The Archangel will not let the Fallen into Heaven to war… and refuses to go to Hell to fight. So it must be on Earth, you see.”

  Dragging his composure back together from its shatter, Stephen said, “So the Archangel was making war plans and you interrupted him with the news that God’s mercy would prevent him from having to tear up the Earth. And then?”

  “And then he struck me and my halo ripped off, and I Fell.” She looked down at her lap where her fingers chafed the mug’s walls.

  “So you didn’t Fall at all… Michael Pushed you,” Stephen said dryly. “Interesting to see that some things are typical to both human and angelic nature.”

  When the silence drew on too long, Stephen looked up and found Asrial staring at him, her mouth ajar. He chuckled sadly and reached up to press it closed, but stopped himself a few inches away. “Ah… and you not expecting that. Perhaps angels and humans have more in common than either of us know.”

  “Pushed,” she whispered. “No… I must have deserved it.”

  “Did you? For pleading that one should forgive God’s enemies? Turn the other cheek? Isn’t God love everlasting? What exactly did you do wrong, Asrial?”

  She bent forward over her mug, one hand stealing from its wall to clasp the edge of the afghan looped beneath her wings and over her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice soft, almost inaudible. “But I must have done something. God would not have let it happen had it not been His will.”

  “Then trust in it,” Stephen said, not quite able to believe he was saying it; much less that he was saying it to an angel. He stood, collecting his mug and the tray. “You must be tired. There’s a bed in the next room… you can rest there.”

  “I shouldn’t stay,” she said half-heartedly.

  “And where would you go?” Stephen asked, suddenly tired of watching those feathers rub against one another, the swell and fall of her chest and back, the smell of her, like frankincense. “It’s not close enough to Christmas for me to pass you off as someone dressing in costume… if anyone would even believe your wings were fake. I hate to say it, but you wouldn’t be safe wandering around.”

  “Safe?” Asrial asked. “What does it matter now? And who would hurt me?”

  “It's a different world these days. We're not used to believing anymore, and we hate anything that tells us we might be wrong in our unbelief. Just... trust me on this one.” Stephen stepped back as she rose from the sofa and placed her mug on the tray. “The bed is that way.”

  The angel ducked through the door to his tiny bedroom, the afghan dragging behind her on the floor. He followed her and stood in the door frame, watching her settle on the bed; chest down, wings splayed upward and outward, their long primaries and secondaries drooping over the frame and falling to the floor like soft, shaped silk. He cleared his throat.

  “I’ll be in the front room if you need anything. If I’m not here when you wake up you can assume I’m in school. We’re on exam schedules so I’ll be back around noon.”

  She stared over her shoulder at him
. Stephen managed a smile and said, “Sleep well, then.”

  He closed the door. And his eyes. And rubbed his forehead. The lost look on her face clenched a knot in his stomach. He busied himself with cleaning the mugs and the pot he’d used to heat the water, and the sink, and the spoons… and even the window sill above the sink. Outside the stars were still lit.

  It could be worse, Stephen decided as he stretched out on the couch, his feet hanging off the edge and an overstuffed crocheted pillow under his head. She could have been hurt, and what would a doctor have thought of those wings? He found a chuckle somewhere in himself. For the first time in seventeen years, a woman would be waiting for him when he got home, and wasn't that just a joke? A beautiful, terrible one, everything he'd come to expect from life. He reached blindly for the rosary on the table and dragged it close, but only reached the word "grace" before falling asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Gabriel lunged to the edge of the cliff, staring down into the void. The black hole in the air, barely visible against the night sky, was already sealing. He flung himself around and pointed at Michael.

  “Is this how you intend to begin the war against the Great Betrayer? With an injustice?”

  Michael folded his arms, his halo spitting sparks that flared as they fell to his feet. “She committed a crime. She was punished.”

  “And what crime was that? Acknowledging God’s mercy? By His name, Michael! Have you gone insane?”

  They locked gazes for several minutes as the other members of the Eighth watched in silence.

  “I believe we were discussing our plans,” Michael said, turning his back on the cliff.

  Gabriel stared at the broad planes of Michael’s back, then crouched and picked up the dimly glowing disc that had drifted to the ground after the girl’s fall. His fingertips throbbed in time with its dull pulsing, but it was already cool enough to handle comfortably. With thinned eyes, he said to Michael’s back, “You are discussing your plans. I will have no part of something so important a simple transgression requires the cessation of Grace as punishment.”

  Raphael and Uriel both glanced at him, startled, but Gabriel ignored them. Cradling the girl’s halo, he ran to the edge of the cliff and swooped into the thick air of Shamayim.

  Mephistopheles found him in one of the smaller chambers adjacent to the seldom-used presentation hall. He entered on silent feet and stopped just within the room, folding his black feathered wings close together and his hands behind his back. Gently, he cleared his throat, waited two heart-beats, then spoke.

  “You sent for me, my liege?”

  A quiet chuckle sounded from the man at the window, whose great black wings, even folded, still dwarfed those of the largest archangel’s. He turned his head, carved ivory profile against the dark walls. “You are good to me, Mephistopheles… and prompt. I had heard the latest patrol is in. Come in.”

  Mephistopheles’s boots clicked against the marble floor as he approached, stopping beside the water basin. He traced its copper brim with a hand. “You heard correctly. It appears that Heaven is preparing for war.”

  Lucifer turned from the window, clasping his hands against its sill and leaning back between them. Long black hair fell behind the shoulders of a dove grey vest. He wore a white linen blouse, black pants and high boots and a black belt. He wore also a grave expression, and in his pale silver eyes there was both a shadow of sadness and a grim determination. “So Michael can no longer restrain himself.”

  “The wound you dealt him in leaving has only festered over time, if I may be so bold to say.”

  “Ah, be bold. We both know it’s true.” Lucifer closed his eyes, drew in a breath and continued. “What else did you learn?”

  “They couldn’t get close enough to see, really. Our few people with the power can never get very far or stay very long before being discovered. The angels sharpen their swords; they drill and practice. But the archangel is impossible to spy on.” Mephistopheles grimaced, wings flexing behind him restlessly. “I wish there were more, my lord….”

  “It is enough, Mephistopheles. More than enough, even.” Lucifer joined him beside the basin. Their reflections in the water were cold and gray, washed of any color. “We will learn more as the time draws closer, I’m sure. In the mean-time, tell them to continue their flights.”

  “I shall do so.” He paused. “My lord… do you really think….”

  “That this is the end? That Michael will come with flaming sword to deal my death, and then to systematically destroy everything we’ve made? That he will pull the keystones out from under Hell’s foundations and watch it crumble?” Lucifer snorted. “God wanted us here, Mephistopheles. For whatever ineffable reason. It will not be so easily undone… I hope.” He stared at his reflection. “But that reminds me of something that has been weighing on my mind. Something you can help me with.”

  Mephistopheles straightened. There were several other princes of Hell, archangels before the Fall, trusted now as Lucifer’s lieutenants – but he was aware that he had somehow held their leader’s favor, and he held that favor in very dear regard. “Anything, my liege.”

  Lucifer dipped a long finger in the water and stirred it. “Michael will not come to Hell to fight. He hates the human souls… his love was ever to champion God against any comers, not to dispense His mercy to the disenfranchised. And he will not allow us into Heaven. That leaves us precious little choice over where our fight will be staged.”

  “Earth,” Mephistopheles murmured, gone cold at the thought.

  “Precisely. He must know it too, because I saw something a day ago. A shimmer, a hint of gold on Earth. I don’t know what it is; perhaps he sent one of the angels to scout the ground. Whatever it is, I’d like you to find out. I don’t like the idea of angels on Earth given the confluence of portents that speak of the final battle.”

  “At once, sir.”

  Lucifer touched his shoulder. “Be careful, please. I would not lose my right hand to Michael’s cunning. Do not underestimate his cunning! He may seem as subtle as a battle axe, but the mind behind those eyes is something else entirely.”

  “I will be careful,” Mephistopheles replied, hiding his pleasure at his liege-lord’s worry.

  “Good man. Report to me as frequently as you may.”

  “I shall.” Mephistopheles made a fist of one hand and pressed it to his breast, bowing at the waist. “Good day, my lord.”

  “Go with Him.”

  Mephistopheles backed out of the room until he stood in the hall.

  Half an hour later, the Fallen angel strode down the cobbled streets, cloak flaring between his wings and a small pouch of necessities secured at his belt. He waved in passing to the human souls that lounged in the doors of their stores, or chatted beneath the awnings of their cafes. It was always dark in Hell; the walls of the cavern that housed their pocket dimension prevented any true day, and the starless nights were so dark that lamp and candle-makers were among the most prosperous of merchants. Electricity would have been popular, had it been possible… but many things were beyond Lucifer's powers.

  Hell, then, was not what any of them had expected upon arrival. But even bereft of halo and with tar-colored feathers, Lucifer and his were angels: not men, and still, somewhere at core, divine. It was over the question of mercy that Heaven had torn apart; though few knew that story.

  Mephistopheles walked out of the city and up the long road toward the Gate, pebbles skittering from the heels of his boots. One hand absently caressed the pommel of his sword. The cobblestones gave way to a cleared dirt path, bordered in rounded grey stones; soon, even the stones vanished, leaving a wild trail leading over the faintly grassed hill. As he followed it, Mephistopheles glanced at the orb hanging at the top of the cavern. The thought of standing beneath a real sun again sent a frisson of pleasure through his spine and up his wings.

  Over the hill, the trail turned cobblestone again and the twin spars of the iron Gate rose from above the mound of
the next hill. Like all Gates, it was a formality, marking a place where space-time had torn enough to allow the whispers of other dimensions through. This one opened onto Earth; the line of souls waiting for entrance stretched back over the hill.

  Lahatiel was on duty today, his ashen wings folded tightly behind his back as he scribbled names on his tablet. Mephistopheles passed the few bewildered humans on the Hell side of the Gate.

  “Lahatiel!”

  The Fallen angel glanced over his shoulder, flame-colored hair in disarray. “Ah! Prince Mephistopheles. We weren’t expecting you today…?”

  “I’m on an errand to Earth. Things are proceeding well?”

  “Well enough, my lord.”

  Mephistopheles walked under the Gate. “Carry on then.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  The rip leading to Earth was only a few hundred feet from the Gate. Mephistopheles was halfway there when the cry of an infant distracted him. He halted, turning to scan the line of souls waiting for admission.

  A young woman stood stiffly behind a man, cradling a baby to her breast. Her locks were the soft brown of a thrush’s wing, hanging untidily over her thin shoulders. What was left of her sweater and pleated skirt was bloody and ragged.

  Mephistopheles walked to within a few paces and said quietly, “My lady, do you need anything?”

  She started, looked up at him with wild green eyes. “I—I… he’s unhappy.”

  “I’m sure,” Mephistopheles replied. “May I?”

  The woman looked away, shoulders tightening; in her arms, the baby wailed. “Could I stop you?”

  “Of course.” Patience. The newly arrived always required great stores of patience.

  The surprise on her face lived badly with her weariness. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth, then hesitantly handed the baby to him. Mephistopheles tucked the little one’s cloth around his body, his heart catching once as he recognized the weave. “Sssh, sssh, my dear,” he said, hushed. The baby human hiccupped and stared up at him, entranced.