by M.C. O'Neill
***
Five miles from the Reyliss home and a mere seventy yards from Sammian’s point of departure into cold space, Mavriel knelt in the dark room of his downtown youth hostel. He made a silent prayer to the Creator and apologized for the lies that he had told his ward earlier that night, although it was all a part of his assignment. His home in Avalon, his last name, even his studies were all contrived.
Only the Creator could hear him for the time being and he knew this well. He raised himself up and took off the white robe. After folding the alabaster and gold cloth with much precision, he placed it in one of the dresser drawers provided by the establishment.
It was such a good feeling to recorporate and unfurl the wings, he thought. He could barely contain the large, white columbine feathers that all but exploded from his shoulders in the cramped room, but the space still accommodated his stretching them to full glory.
He had sent her a message without even the use of one of their manaphones. He had composed a mere thought in order to call Quen’die as the model he had used earlier that night didn’t even work. As he unwrapped the bandages on his wrist, he looked at the mark the Creator had assigned unto him almost sixteen years ago and saw that it was a perfect match with the sigil on the maiden’s belly; an infinity symbol. All was going to be well, as he knew she was going to answer his call. He could feel her molten desire to make contact with him like it was a programmed imperative, which in some ways, it was.
When he was composed and himself again, he opened the shutters to the third floor window and looked out beyond the rooftops of the early morning of downtown Corosa. Beyond all the dingy age of the well-developed capital city, he gazed past its majestic skyline which was punctuated by the pyramidal forms. There was little time left to act, he reasoned, as tears streamed out of his warm eyes. Despite the arguments of the global politicians, those lights were neither beacons nor countdowns to detonation. They were nothing more than simple engine lights. Those orange pulses atop the arks had begun to blink faster and brighter.
Please, God…
II.
THE SONG OF LUCIFER
