by Cate Corvin
I did as he told me, holding my hands in front of myself and feeling a little like an idiot sitting there with my fingers splayed open.
“Now reach for it,” Michael instructed. “It’s in there. The transmutation is weaving it into every cell of your body, turning you into the moon made flesh.”
His back-and-forth from drunk angel to ancient instructor was giving me whiplash. Moon made flesh, my ass.
I looked at my empty hands. Nothing happened. I didn’t feel so much as a twinge in my fingertips.
“Not from your fingers, kid.” He pounded his chest. “From in here. This is the core.”
Michael held out his hands like he was going to weave a cat’s cradle, but instead of strings, he seemed to pluck white-hot threads of light from midair, forming them into a ball.
Soon he held an entire miniature sun in his hands, the light warmer-toned, hotter and more vivid than Lucifer’s piercing golden rays.
“Pull from the core,” I muttered. I had no business messing with magic. Weapons had always been my forte, the place where I was not just comfortable, but nearly flawless.
I searched inside, feeling more foolish by the second. There was nothing but flesh and blood in my chest. My lungs, my heart…
I finally found it. It was almost shocking, a visceral sensation of something else curled up inside me like a snake in waiting, but it was a snake woven of moonbeams and lightning, cold and bright.
It slithered through me, making my veins itch as the power flowed towards my waiting fingertips.
“There it is!” Michael crowed, pounding me on the back so hard I almost fell over, which was saying something.
I opened my eyes, ignoring the cold sweat beading on my forehead.
It was nowhere near as bright as Michael’s magic, but it was light. As icy as the moon on a winter’s night, silver and silent, rippling between my fingertips in flashes and fading just as quickly.
It burned out quickly, the light vanishing, turning to vapor between my hands and dissipating completely.
I stared at the empty space between my fingers, my heart in my throat. That’d been my magic, some strange power I’d managed to pull out of myself.
It was a new hope that I wouldn’t completely fail her. If I could pull that light out again, I’d have something to fight with that wouldn’t pull me into that deep, dark place where all rationality and logic went out the window and only bloodlust remained.
“Do you still feel it?” the archangel across from me asked.
My hands might’ve been empty, but now that I’d touched the wellspring inside myself, there was no mistaking what it was. I’d know and remember the sensation of that icy, coiled moonlight forever.
I nodded. My hair fell over my shoulders with the motion, the soft black feather I always wore touching my cheek.
It wasn’t what I thought I’d be, but if the universe wanted this, I’d find a way to shoulder the burdens, through the good times and the bad.
15
Melisande
With a little careful poking and prodding, I maneuvered the last slivered piece of sword into place.
It was a sad-looking sight, but I breathed a sigh of relief. Every single shard was accounted for.
With that being done, I opened the bag wide and carefully poured all the pieces back in with a sound like tinkling metallic rain. If Wayland couldn’t fix the Sword, no one could, but even the lack of the ideal weapon wouldn’t stop me now that I had my sights fixed on the right place.
I looked down at my chest. It took a little searching, but I finally found the faint, glimmering string that hovered in midair, connecting me to Lucifer. As long as that tiny portion of the Chain existed, there was still a chance.
Azazel was nowhere to be seen as I swept through the arena, nor was Belial. Tascius was still with Michael- I felt his chain the strongest, tugging on the mark on my wrist. There was a faint sense of wonder coming through our bond.
As much as I wanted to interfere, staying away was best for him right now. He needed to be confident in himself, and interrupting his training was the worst possible way to encourage that.
“Belial?” I poked my head around the corner of the war room. It was empty, but a page had been left on the table.
I picked it up and quickly scanned the words. The new potential Ministers were vying for election this week- the Princes needed liaisons as quickly as possible, and the Brightside was hosting Lucifuge Rofocale today, a demon running a strident campaign for the job.
Both Belial and Azazel would be prowling the streets of Dis, ensuring the campaigns didn’t get out of hand. I was on my own for this one.
As independent as they allowed me to be, I was under no illusions that they wouldn’t all collectively murder me if I went out without watching my back. My wing was getting stronger, but it still needed to remain in the splinted bandages for another few days.
That meant weapons. Lots of weapons.
I had the ebonite dagger at my thigh, but I found the armory and jammed two more daggers in the tops of my boots, put one on a cord around my neck, and found one of Vyra’s needle-like hairpins, jabbing it through my twisted-up braid. A dark veil went over my head, obscuring the dead-giveaway violet tones of my hair.
Capheira gave me a sideways glance when I met her at the stable. “I know you hate the wastelands, so I brought you something,” I said, holding out a hand.
She turned her head aside, flickering like blue lightning, but deigned to climb out of her lily pond. Water splashed from her mane and soaked into my boots, but she made a grumbling noise of assent when I gave her a palmful of brown sugar.
A feeling of peace filled me as I saddled her and mounted up, heading into the Sixth Circle with the broken Sword at my side.
My wheels had finally stopped spinning, the gears no longer grinding. I finally had tangible, real goals to accomplish, and it was like having a boulder the size of the Dragon lifted off my chest.
We made it out of Dis without any trouble. Many demons had put aside the reconstruction to watch Minister-in-Waiting Rofocale give his speech, and his opponent, Minister-in-Waiting Ipos, was trying to pull the crowds away for his own campaign, plastering pictures of himself all over the obsidian buildings with a team of imps.
I breathed easier when we were in the wide-open wastelands, with nothing but the red sky above us and black sand below. Anyone who wanted to kill me would be obvious from miles off, and I had a throwing knife tucked in my palm and ready to go.
The peace I felt came with us into the desert, but an amorphous sadness nestled alongside it deep in my chest. When I was all alone, just myself and my thoughts, it was so difficult not to dwell on everything I could’ve done differently.
But in the end, maybe it was the Chain’s desire. Maybe we’d really had no choice at all but to roll with the punches, no matter what we could’ve done to prevent it.
That line of thought was almost comforting, as much as I wanted to reach out and shake the Chain in a fury sometimes.
The sun was dimming when we reached the craggy edge of the wastelands. I led Capheira to a shady spot behind an outcropping of rock, pouring water into my hands so she could drink.
“I’ll be back soon,” I murmured in her ear, and began the climb to the tunnels of Hekla Fell.
Rocks skidded treacherously under my boots, but I gripped outcroppings on the way up, pulling myself through the narrower corridors and barely managing to get through without ripping the bandages off my wing.
I was sweating from the endless heat when I stood at the dark mouth of the tunnel. I only gave myself enough time to swallow hard before plunging in alone, eyes wide open and fingers wrapped tightly around my knife.
It was so much darker without Azazel’s stars to guide my way. It felt like it pressed against my eyes with inky fingers, plugged my ears, took away all sense of time and space… until the whispering began.
My ears pricked up, but I couldn’t make out the words. Just that
the soft, pleading whispers sounded like a woman’s voice, one that was too familiar for my liking.
A lump formed in my throat, but I forced myself to keep pushing on. Vyra wasn’t in here, no matter what the whispering voices wanted me to believe.
I’d only taken twenty more blind steps when the woman’s voice faded and a man’s voice began, his whispers far harsher, almost guttural.
I knew that voice so well. Lucifer was whispering to me from the total absence of light, but if he were in here, there would be no darkness.
“You can’t have me, whatever you are,” I spat, taking a few more trudging steps. “You’re not Lucifer.”
Lucifer’s derisive voice echoed back to me, and then the tunnel went silent.
I finally spilled out into the heat of Hekla Fell, the sweat on my forehead and back still icy despite the furnace-like blast of it.
Wayland was outside his forge, examining a length of polished wood. He twisted and turned it in his multiple hands, mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. “You again.”
I lifted my shoulders in a shrug, trying to look like walking through the tunnel was a cakewalk and not a terrifying experience. “I broke something very important to me, and I’d like it fixed, if you’re able.”
The smith heaved a deep sigh, his mustache rippling out from his face, but he held out a hand and twitched his fingers.
I untied the bag with the Sword’s shards from my belt but hesitated before handing it over. “It’s the Sword of Light. The shards still have the essence of it, so I don’t know if you can even touch it.”
Wayland grumbled and plucked the bag out of my hands, pulled the drawstring open, and reached inside.
“Wait, you’ll burn-!”
I held my breath, expecting him to be immolated on the spot. As soon as his fingers met the metal, he was going to burst into a column of flame, and then all my hopes and the journey out here would be for nothing…
Wayland pulled his hand out of the bag, holding a sliver of metal pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger.
I exhaled explosively, my chest tight with shock. “You didn’t burn up.”
The demon smith brought the shard closer to his face, the polished silver side of it reflecting the light of the lava lake into his ruby eye.
“I feel like it knows me,” he murmured, turning it this way and that. “It feels… like an old, old friend.”
I was still a little shaken from watching him touch it so cavalierly. Tascius had been burned, and he had angel blood in him. “I know I ask you for a lot, Wayland. But this last time, can you make a new Sword of Light from these pieces?”
He carefully laid the piece back in the bag like he was laying a baby to rest, reverent and paternal.
I gasped when one of his numerous other hands shot out and grabbed my sword-arm. He pulled me closer, almost yanking me off my feet, and examined my hand so closely I felt his breath against my skin.
Finally, he laid his palm against mine. Several long minutes passed, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake in asking Wayland for help, but he released me, turning his back on me so quickly I thought I’d somehow managed to offend him.
“I can make it new,” he said gruffly. “It won’t be quite the same, but a beauty like this shouldn’t be left in pieces. Beautiful.” He patted the bag lovingly, cradling it to his chest now.
“What’s your asking price?” I stepped forward, determined to make the bargain now. If I had to travel across half the continent to fetch body parts again, I’d find myself a new smith.
But I knew that was a lie. Wayland was the only smith I’d ever trust again after what’d he done for us.
He turned around at the entrance to his forge, peering back at me. “I don’t want payment for this. I want to see it whole again and put to the purpose it was meant for- yes, precious?”
For a wild second I thought he was talking to me. But he lifted the bag of shards to his ear, his mouth pursed like he was listening intently.
He was utterly batshit, but if he could remake the Sword, I’d take him, batshit and all.
“Nope,” he said, popping the p. “No payment. Wouldn’t be right. This is meant to be part of the world, and if its light has gone out, we’ve got an imbalance to fix.”
Not for the first time, I wondered if Wayland really was a demon.
But what else could he possibly be?
“If you say so,” I said doubtfully. If he came back later asking for my firstborn child, there was going to be Hell to pay.
He was cuddling the bag again. “I say so.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
Wayland’s head jerked up and he gave me a foul look. “Will you quit with the questions and get?”
I raised my hands in defeat, already backing towards the tunnel. “Thank you, Wayland. You’re a gem.”
He snorted, but he looked pleased as he pushed the canvas door of his hut aside and slithered in, dragging his centipede-like body behind him. I heard him grumbling even after the canvas fell shut again, and finally turned my feet towards the exit.
Before I plunged back into the whispering darkness, I sent up a little prayer of thanks. Not a big one- after all, God was dead, and who knew what else might be listening- but a fervent one regardless.
For once, things were sliding into place. All I had to do was have the fortitude to outlast the bad times and keep going, even when things seemed like the light had completely gone out.
This time, going through the tunnel was easier. I tuned out the voices of the lost who whispered to me from the unseen corners, the soft pleas for help, the rough whispers promising violence I’d only experienced once from Lucifer’s hands.
When I reached the end and found myself back under the crimson sky of Dis, I was only shaking a little.
The tunnel had saved the worst for last. When it realized I was getting better at tuning it out, it discovered I had a weakness.
It wasn’t the sound of Lucifer threatening me, because I knew that Lucifer in his right mind without the soul-bond would never hurt me, or the sound of Vyra’s strangled pleas.
It was the sound of a baby crying in the dark. The sound that a baby would make if it’d been abandoned and knew it was going to die alone.
I let one awful shiver trail down my spine. I would never, ever allow that to happen to Sarai. Not in a million years; not even after my dying breath. I’d claw my way back from the grave for a second time just to prevent it.
I plunged onto the trail, but just before the mouth of the cave was out of sight, I turned around and raised my middle finger, holding it as steady as possible. It wasn’t much of an insult to whatever lived in the cave, feeding on fear and despair, but fuck it. It was the only weapon I had.
“Over my dead body, motherfucker,” I rasped, my throat dry from stress and the endless heat. Sarai moved around in my stomach, corroborating my vow.
Nobody else was going to win this game. Not while I was still alive and had something to say about it.
“Come on, baby,” I said, gently patting the spot where she’d moved. “Let’s blow this place. The company around here isn’t worth our time.”
A cool breath left the tunnel mouth when I turned my back on it and started downhill, carrying another faint sound to my ears. Once again, I ignored it, but it remained stuck in my head all the way down… the soft, mocking laughter, like it knew something I didn’t.
16
Melisande
There was nothing that could take my mind off that last cruel bit of laughter as we rode across the desert. I twined my fingers through Capheira’s mane, scowling out at the dunes of black sand and trying to rinse it from my mind, but every time I managed even that, the other noise crept in.
Alone with my thoughts, I realized I’d finally come to terms with my situation. I was going to be a mother. The thought was terrifying, but I no longer felt like a stranger in my own body.
There was nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure a better w
orld for Sarai. Maybe demons like Druzila were right, and it wasn’t my place to do anything about a world I hadn’t been born to, but I felt I’d earned the right to be here.
I touched the bit of leather armor over where Sarai would be resting inside me, thinking of how strange it all was. Me, a parent. The changes weren’t that noticeable yet, but my leather clothes were just the tiniest bit too tight now.
I shifted in place on the saddle. I still had my balance and coordination, which would have to make up for any other weaknesses.
The towers of Dis were just visible over the dunes when Capheira’s steady hoofbeats lost their rhythm.
She danced sideways and slowed to a stop, pawing at the sand with one hoof. Lightning flickered deep inside her, illuminating the skull beneath her pricked-up ears.
All of my senses were on high alert. Barely breathing, I scanned the horizon as I silently slid a knife from my boot with my left hand and cupped a throwing knife in the right.
There was nothing out of the ordinary to my sight, but I’d been a denizen of Hell for too long to fall for that. Right now, my best bet was my ears and nose.
I raised my head and sniffed the air, catching the ever-familiar scent of ashes and dust, the faintest whiff of spice that could only be from Dis… and just under it, something that was oily and reeked of smoke and rot.
The fine hairs rose on my arms. Capheira danced lightly beneath me, making soft noises of discontent, but she wheeled and spun backwards as a trickle of sand spilled down the dune in front of us.
I let go of her reins, jumping out of the saddle. My boot heels caught the sand and I went down to one knee, but I rose rapidly enough when I saw more of the sand moving.
Things were climbing out the dunes; an arm slid out and dragged a body behind it, and an enormous shape finally stood up to its full height, dripping sand like water.
