A Rosary of Stones and Thorns Page 6

  Brad had already poked the fire back to life when Stephen closed the door to the dormitory at the top of the stairs. The boy backed away as Mephistopheles approached the sofa and rested the angel there, drawing the blanket up around her shoulders.

  “Maybe the afghan would be better,” Stephen said, noticing again the dark purple stain.

  All three of them looked at her. No one moved.

  Mephistopheles laughed. “None of us are quite ready to strip an angel, are we?”

  “I thought demons hated angels and God and all that,” Brad said, raking his hair back with a hand.

  Mephistopheles smiled. “Is that what they taught you in school, then? Satan and his minions, bifurcated tails and pitchforks?”

  Stephen listened as he pulled the afghan off the sofa’s back and gently draped it over Asrial.

  “Well, it’s not like we had any other evidence,” Brad said, a hint of testiness creeping into his voice.

  Mephistopheles was silent, his face set as he watched the priest, fire dancing across his back. His dark flight feathers twitched. “No,” he said, absently, “No, you didn’t, did you.”

  Stephen glanced up from the angel’s side, his fingers tightening against the hem of the blanket beneath the afghan. “Mephistopheles… what’s wrong with her?”

  The white covert gleamed as the demon held it up before the fire, its gold bands picking up slivers of orange and crimson. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s serious. Something to do with her being on Earth.”

  “What’s the big deal about the feathers?” Brad asked, sitting next to the coffee table.

  Mephistopheles’s eyes narrowed as his face turned to the boy’s. “What would you do if you woke up one day and one of your fingers fell off?”

  Brad froze, pinned beneath the intensity of the unblinking stare. Only the soft, triumphant hiss of the blanket falling free tore both demon and boy’s attention away from one another. Stephen held it up, leaving the afghan over Asrial’s slack body. Hints of cream-gold skin glinted through the woven holes of the garishly colored granny squares.

  “God Almighty, Mephistopheles… what did you do to the man?” Stephen asked as he fingered the blood-stiffened fabric.

  “I ran him through.”

  “Woah,” Brad muttered.

  “And that produced all this?” Stephen asked. As terribly unbalanced as he felt, the matter of cleaning the blanket seemed to gain a preternatural importance. Anything to make a demon prince in his common room normal, and to erase from his fingertips the river silt-softness of an angel’s skin.

  Mephistopheles shrugged. “I broke his breastbone. Ask a surgeon, it's not a clean process.” He rubbed his finger over the soft edge of the white feather in his hand.

  "Can swords do that?" Brad asked.

  "Mine can."

  Stephen tossed the blanket onto the battered easy chair and folded his arms over his charcoal gray sweater. “How do we wake her? We need to talk. All this happening at once… I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either,” the demon said. His amber eyes slid to the angel’s shape. “Maybe something to drink. Or…,” he stopped. “Or the smell of incense.”

  “I’ll find some. Brad, can you make hot cocoa? We’ll probably need it.”

  “Sure, Father.”

  As the other men left the common room, Mephistopheles knelt beside Asrial, touched her cheek softly with the backs of two fingers. Her red-gold hair spilled over her forehead and around her throat. Her feathers were so close to the pristine white of an archangel’s, so soft, so bleached. Even the crown of her hair was a paler gold, where her halo’s spinning had blown clean the color from it.

  Her brows were drawn finely upward as if in pain: her lashes a delicate web of shimmering crimson.

  A hunger uncurled from the pit of his belly. Not for her, for all her beauty… but for the Heaven she’d left so recently she still smelled of it, incense and clean soil and sunlight. Not for her, for all her grace… but for the God whose face had been so long obscured by Hell's artificial walls.

  The perfume of myrrh and frankincense punched through Mephistopheles’ reverie. He glanced up to find Stephen with the censer, swinging it lightly from its chain. Cupping a hand around one of the arabesques of smoke, Mephistopheles tickled it toward Asrial's face.

  “Wake, lovely one, favored one,” he murmured.

  Her chest lifted in a long breath. Her lashes parted ever-so-slowly, revealing a mazed golden eye. “Father, I am ill,” she whispered.

  “Not for long,” Stephen said from over the demon’s shoulder.

  Asrial’s eye flew open. “No!” She jerked upright, clutching the afghan. “No, this was a dream….”

  Mephistopheles leaned away, still on his knees. “No dream, I fear.”

  First one white wing, then the other curled over her shoulder and up to her chin, surrounding her in feathers. She rested her cheek against the flat of one wing-arm. “I want to go home.”

  “So do I,” Mephistopheles said.

  Stephen glanced at him sharply.

  “To your lightless, graceless place!” Asrial said, voice growing taut. “To the place you chose!”

  “Yes,” Mephistopheles said. The clatter of mugs on a tray announced Brad’s arrival, but he didn’t turn. “Yes, I chose it, Asrial. Do you know why?”

  “You turned from Him!” Asrial leaned toward him in her zeal, one wing unfurling enough to allow her to move freely.

  “I turned from Michael!” Mephistopheles said, refusing to back away. His hands on his knees had clenched into trembling fists. “I turned from his callousness! I chose to follow Lucifer and make a home for human souls!”

  “What?” Stephen said softly.

  “What?” Asrial repeated, frowning. “What do human souls have to do with it?”

  “Michael would only allow into Heaven the souls of those whom had followed the rituals and commands perceived by the first humans to know Him to the very letter. Every soul that didn’t was left to dissipate on the Wind! Lucifer chose the path of mercy. He made a place where every soul could dwell, on the chance that one day Michael would understand.”

  The censer lowered as Stephen stared at Mephistopheles. “What... what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if it weren’t for Lucifer, almost all of your planet’s population would have become dust after death,” Mephistopheles answered calmly, though he shook. “We are creatures of a God who was first known by the Hebrews, and it is they that the angels guide into Shamayim. The souls saved by your Christ, Father, go not to Heaven… but to Hell. Michael will not allow them in Heaven.”

  The censer hit the ground with a dull clang, rolling across the wooden floor.

  “You think I lie? I could take you to Hell myself. You could talk to Lucifer, if you wanted. No one knows the whys or hows of God’s interest in your world, or why He first showed Himself to the Hebrews, and to no one else. But despite that, Lucifer believes His interest includes all humanity... and so do those of us who follow him.”

  “Jehovah,” Stephen whispered.

  “Elohim,” Asrial said, her voice trembling.

  "You observe," Mephistopheles said, voice low, "that even the angels know Him by the names He gave them."

  “How can this be?” Stephen asked, lifting his head. “Mephistopheles… how can God want one thing, and His angels direct another?”

  The demon shrugged, the motion rolling up his wings. “We are fallible. He trusted us to handle souls too fragile for His fingers… and in His design, our dichotomy was somehow planned. But for all this final battle is in the design, I cannot believe it is meant… at least, not yet. Not this way.”

  “Not on Earth,” Asrial said.

  Mephistopheles turned to her, startled. “You know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Michael Pushed her,” Stephen said, a twinge of his dry humor returning. He reached over to the tray on the coffee table and liberated a mug of hot cocoa. The expressi
on on Brad’s face gave him pause; the boy was sitting very quietly near the fire, dark eyes smoldering.

  A spear of anger pierced Mephistopheles. “Pushed?” He looked at Asrial. “He cast you down, Lady?”

  A porcelain-smooth blush rose beneath the skin of her cheeks. She lowered her glittering eyes. “I heard him planning the final battle, and told him he…he should not.”

  “What? You spoke for us? Why?”

  Asrial lifted her gaze to the demon’s. “Because God keeps all your halos. They’re living. They’re waiting for you. He can only have forgiven you.”

  Mephistopheles stared at her, his thoughts shattered. He stood and walked to the fire, turning his back on them all.

  “I need the whole story,” Stephen said. “From beginning to end. If we’re going to stop this thing….”

  “Stop the Apocalypse?” Brad asked, his voice cutting sharply through the pause. “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? I thought the Apocalypse was a good thing. That’s what you kept telling us.”

  “We didn’t think it would happen!” Stephen said. At Brad's expression, he said, "Not like this. Not... some battle between angels completely unrelated to us or our need for salvation. God works through us, Stadler. We are His instruments. It's not supposed to be a fiery deus ex machina."

  “You’re rather practically-minded for a priest,” Mephistopheles said, still staring at the fire.

  Stephen folded his arms. “I’m a Jesuit.”

  “Ah!” Mephistopheles said with a laugh. "Yes. You would be."

  “Well, yes. The whole story now?”

  The demon sighed. “Very well.”

  Chapter Six

  “No one knew when God changed His mien. Or even if He did; perhaps we were just so badly off in our understanding… who can know? But He is the God mentioned in your Old Testament… of course I’ve read it.

  “Michael was in charge of Heaven, and fifteen lieutenants had he; I was one of them. But the first born was Lucifer and it was He who had God’s ear. They say, though I’ve never asked, that he alone could stand God’s presence for longer than a handful of heartbeats, he alone who could stand to hear the music of God’s speech. He spent most of his time in the Seventh Heaven, soaking in the light of God.

  “He and Michael were close. Closer than brothers, or lovers. We lived in grace and harmony in Heaven, and at first it was we archangels only who lived there. God had just created the place, and us with it… and then He made it clear that humans were to be allowed into it where His emanations would keep souls alive indefinitely, maintained just as we were. But He could not handle the souls of humans; they were too fragile, and dissolved in His hands.

  “So Michael was given the task of ensuring human souls arrived safely; for that purpose the first angels of the Ninth Choir were created, legions of beings who could touch human souls, help shepherd them home. He interpreted the rules by which souls were admitted very strictly—he loves God in his own way, I suppose, and wanted nothing less than perfection for the place where God resided.

  “Lucifer had different thoughts. He was certain that God wanted all human souls to have a home, not just a handful. That the way humans had perceived God through their limited vision was not the way God had wanted them to; that He did not want to solely save one people, but to begin, in His own way, to smooth away the pain and oppression, the injustice and suffering of all humanity.

  “Michael did not agree. Keep in mind that most of the archangels could barely stand the presence of God for a breath, much less long enough to converse with Him. Most of them couldn’t even understand the language of God. There was no real way for us to understand, beyond the emanations of His benevolence and His love for justice, exactly what He wanted.

  “In the beginning, there was no violence. Lucifer spoke of mercy, of our responsibility to every human soul. Angelic souls are not wasted when we die; our essence returns to the breast of God. Did we owe something less to the human souls? And Michael would listen with amusement, perhaps, but not anger. My liege-lord gathered other angels who would listen, who agreed. Who would sneak in souls when Michael was not there. There was no violence, no… until later.

  “After the death of… well. At one point, Lucifer finally gathered us together and spoke of his intentions. He would found a new place where the souls not chosen by Michael for Heaven would have a home after death—those of us who wished to join him in this effort could come with him, and those who didn’t would stay.

  “But hearing this, Michael grew incensed. And then there was war.

  “By the end of it, we had made our choices, those of us left living. We knew what we were getting into: Lucifer was the Morning Star, beloved of God and closest to Him… but he was not God. He could create a realm, but he couldn’t weave it near enough and light enough that we would be able to sense God. We were walking into darkness in the name of a principle. But many of us chose to follow him anyway. We set aside our halos, followed him through the passage, and our wings tarred without Him to make them pale.

  “And there we lived. Lucifer sent the angels who had followed him to watch over humans wherever they lived, to wait for Michael’s angels to make their decisions and catch their souls when they were cast off by Heaven before the Wind could come and tear them apart. In the beginning we were so few that Lucifer and all the Princes were among the busiest on Earth. But a thin stream of angels came to us after our initial defection, and while we were never as populous as the angelic legion we’d left, we had enough to do our job.

  “But that’s where we’ve been and what we’ve been doing for centuries. And for all I long for God’s light and His music, I would not leave Hell to bow my head to Michael. Not even,” and here Mephistopheles sighed and turned from the fire, “Not even for my halo back again. Not for white wings or for pale hair, not for the ability to fly again. Not while the Wind claims a single sentient soul.”

  The fire crackled in the silence. Brad sat, clutching his mug and staring at the demon; Stephen, on the easy chair, was so stiff and still his back ached.

  Slender fingers slid over the censer’s insulated base, then picked it up and cradled it in the palm of a small hand. Asrial, the afghan half-heartedly clasped around her body, walked to Mephistopheles and faced him, thin spirals of scented smoke rising from the ball in her free hand.

  “I cannot think badly of the Archangel,” she said, her voice so soft the fire’s popping threatened to press it out.

  “I know,” Mephistopheles said gently. He wound his fingers around the chain and lifted the censer from her hand without touching her. “What is your story, my Lady?”

  “My… my choir instructor told me there was something to see in Shamayim. So I flew on the Restday there and found camps of war. I thought they were those of the humans…,” she glanced over her shoulder at the priest and boy, “And flew on. I saw a strange mount and discovered there a building with all the halos of the Fallen, still living. When I was discovered, I was taken to the war camps to find angels there, girding themselves for violence. And then I was sent to Michael… and the Archangel accused me of evil, and cast me out of Heaven for speaking against his plans for the Final Battle.”

  “And she landed in my parking lot,” Stephen said. He cleared his throat and said, “I tried to make her comfortable.”

  “And Lucifer sent me to follow the angel spoor, thinking Michael had sent a scout to find a place to do battle,” the demon murmured.

  “And I am dying!” Asrial said, trembling again. Her other hand stole to her midriff and she stared at the floor. “My feathers….”

  Mephistopheles looked up from his musing. “Ah, Lady. No angel has ever been cast out of Heaven! Asked to go, chosen to go, yes. And most of them walked through the Gate to Hell on their own. But forced… never! You were not meant to leave your home. You did not prepare yourself so that the lack of God’s light would not affect you. That you are on Earth, where some ray of God’s presence still shines, and
not in Hell where the lack of Him would have extinguished you must be His intervention.”

  “So now that you’re all here… what?” Brad asked. “How do two humans, an angel and a devil stop the Apocalypse?”

  “God knows,” Stephen muttered.

  Asrial turned. “Yes! Yes, He does! If only…”

  “If only we could talk to Him… but even I can't bear Him—there is no hope of any of you,” Mephistopheles said.

  Brad cocked his head. “You said yourself that there’s one person who can talk to him.”

  “My liege!”

  “The Great Betrayer,” Asrial whispered.

  “But I can’t get to Heaven… only to Hell,” Mephistopheles said. "Even if we speak to my lord, we still need to reach Heaven...."

  “One thing at a time,” Stephen said quietly. “One step at a time.”

  They stared at one another, frozen by the audacity of their thoughts. Finally, Brad sighed. “I think I’d better call Marie and cancel our date.”

  The sheer normalcy of it made Stephen laugh, and he grasped for it to steady himself. “You never did show me a picture of her.”

  “I got one right here.” The boy dug in his pocket and handed it to Stephen. “She’s really cool… smart too. Her mom was some kind of really fancy doctor and was so good at it she retired early or something like that, so it must run in the family.”

  “Well, the phone is in the kitchen.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Stephen studied the photo of the smiling girl, a blonde with green eyes. Her intelligence shone brightly through them. He suddenly wondered if she were a candidate for Michael’s Heaven…or if the Archangel would have left her soul to the Wind. He lifted his head. “When can we leave?”

  “As soon as night falls. I have a token to get back, but it only works at a specific time.”

  Asrial sat again on the sofa, body folded in on itself and wings hunkering over her shoulders. “Mephistopheles?”