“Good.” Mom nodded. “Now, go to sleep.”
Burrowing deeper under the covers, she nodded. “‘Kay.”
Her mother shut the curtains, kissed her once more, and left, closing the door behind her. In the muted daylight, Lucia’s body finally relaxed. All around her were familiar smells and sounds, and when a wave of wellbeing overtook her, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Armaros
Armaros stayed on the green for a long time, staring at the chapel. Inside was Aaron, and he very much wanted to see what the man was up to. Maybe he was praying or was having a theological discussion with the chaplain.
“Or maybe he’s up to no good,” Lucifer whispered.
Cutting his eyes to him, Armaros shrugged. “Probably. Run in there and check for me, will you?”
Lucifer let out a hearty laugh, slapping him on the back. “Armaros, my friend, you get funnier and funnier. Just like The Exorcist.”
“Unoriginal.”
“Whatever,” Lucifer muttered.
Facing him, Armaros raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”
Lucifer considered him, amusement fleeing. “I got a message. Not one I usually attend to. Generally, I delegate—” He paused significantly, waiting for Armaros to interject but went on when he remained silent. “—but in this case, I came to see what was going on for myself. Felt the tug to a potential soul. A familiar soul.”
“Lucia?” It was the same reason he was here, but he still couldn’t believe it. “Delia is with her.”
“No, I’m not.” A small hand slipped into his. “I left before my—aura? What did you call it, Luc?”
“Impression, Delie,” the Fallen added helpfully.
“Luc?” Armaros asked, eyebrows nearly in his hair.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
“Yes, impression.” Delia ignored Armaros and Luc’s argument. “I didn’t want my impression to stay with Lucia and draw anything bad to her. I didn’t stay too long, did I?”
Holding up a finger, Lucifer closed his eyes then shook his head. “No. You left in time.”
“What happened, Delia?” Armaros asked.
Sad, the girl sat on the grass. In their weeks together, Delia had filled out. While thin, her appearance was more gangly than undernourished. Her skin was pale, but not sallow, and her hair was bouncy and shiny, growing so fast, it now fell to her waist.
She missed Lucia. Many bedtimes were spent talking about her and what specifically, Delia missed the most. It gave the word hell a whole new meaning for Armaros. His happiest memories now had the ability to eviscerate him.
“Delia?” he asked again, sitting next to her.
She shrugged. “She was fine. Working. But…” she trailed off.
“Delia,” he asked, a little more sharply.
Shrugging again, her lip wobbled and she bit down hard, pointed teeth digging into the soft skin. “She’s not happy. Her head hurt, and every once in a while this blackness would overwhelm her. I don’t know where it came from. If it was from her or something else. I couldn’t tell. It lasted a second and then it disappeared. I couldn’t follow it and I’d already been there too long. I’m sorry.”
“Watch her,” Armaros directed. Delia’s words caused his heart to pound and fear to overwhelm him. It was what he suspected. Something was attacking Lucia.
Inside the library, Lucia stared through a slide viewer. In front of her was a case holding hundreds of slides. Methodically, she would insert a slide into the viewer, lift it to her eye, lower it, make a note, and begin the process again.
He moved closer, squatting next to her chair. This close he could see the purple beneath her eyes she’d tried to hide with makeup, and the faint rose of her cheeks. Her lips parted as she sighed, lowering the viewer and rubbing her eyes.
She touched the table, carefully picking up a slide, but rather than place it in the viewer, she held it, staring off into space.
Need to touch her. His hand hovered over hers. He remembered the feel of her skin against his, and more than anything, he wanted to touch her again.
Her hand lay unmoving when suddenly something nudged him, alerting him to a change. Beneath his, Lucia’s hand trembled, the slide slipping from her fingers. It took less than a second, but he felt it, saw it.
Darkness.
It rose from the floor, curling around his knees before reaching for Lucia. It was sticky, like tar, leaving an oily residue which wouldn’t be visible to humans. Only his desire to discover its source kept him from zapping it into nothing.
It lingered over her, and he thought maybe it would move on. Using his power, Armaros followed the trail, seeking the point of origin.
His power began the hunt, tasting the darkness and then pursing it through the earth, over the city, and up, up, up. Just as he was about to catch it, Lucia gasped and his attention split. It had touched her, winding its way through her veins into her heart. Give up, what do you have to live for?
Anger burned inside him and shot out like a dagger, searing the darkness, melting it like ice in the sun. As it did, he felt the warning in his soul; he had to leave Lucia now. Any longer and his presence would leave a mark.
But he couldn’t do it. For all his power, he couldn’t abandon her to the threat, which neutralized for now, filled her with such melancholy.
“Hanielle!” he called out, hoping Lucia’s guardian had sensed the same thing he had.
In a flash, she appeared. Her nostrils flared and her sword glowed with deadly intent. “Go,” she commanded. “I’ll remain with her.”
One glance was all he allowed himself before racing after the darkness only to find himself swallowed by light.
Lucia
Lucia awoke with a gasp, sensing eyes on her.
Zia had moved her desk chair next to the bed, and stared at her. “Good. You’re awake.”
“Your laser gaze did the trick,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes and sitting. “What do you need?” She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Her teeth felt fuzzy. Pushing down the covers, she stretched and got out of bed.
“I don’t want you to do any more scrying, piccola.” Zia followed her to the bathroom, and watched her splash water on her face. “Your mother told me you’ve been trying.”
“It doesn’t work anyway.” Patting her face dry with a hand towel, she faced her aunt. “Why won’t you do it for me?”
“Because I was too proud. I thought I knew what I was dabbling in, but I had no idea. It’s not safe. Not for you, not for your demon, not for your little girl demon.”
“They aren’t demons!” Slamming the towel onto the sink, she picked up her toothbrush and squeezed on toothpaste. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, she went on, “I told you before.”
“I know. I know. You’re right. The child isn’t a demon, but she is not human, and the man? He is worse than a demon. An original evil, Lucia. You must see that.” Zia’s normally dry tone was replaced with earnestness. Her color was high, and her hands clasped against her chest.
“He was, Zia. He made a choice, and it led to some pretty bad things. But he’s different. He loves me, and he loves Delia. And they need me.” Throwing the toothbrush onto the sink, she pushed past her aunt.
“Pretty bad things? Pretty bad things?” Her aunt’s voice grew shrill. “Is World War II a pretty bad thing?”
In her room, Lucia searched for her jeans. When she found them, she picked up a shirt and went inside her closet to change. “You’re not seriously blaming World War II on Armaros?”
“Who else should I blame?”
Sticking her head out of the closet, Lucia regarded her aunt in disbelief. “Um. I don’t know. Hitler?”
“Bah.” Zia waved her off. “I’m not a historian. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let’s talk about free will. Humans making shitty decision. If you’re going to blame Armaros for starting it, why not blame God for not stopping it?” Lucia argued, s
tepping out of the closet and grabbing an elastic from her dresser. Angrily, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail.
“Lucia!” Making the sign of the cross, Zia looked heavenward. “Don’t talk like that!”
“Zia—I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I know what Armaros did—”
“Oh, do you?” Zia cut her off.
“Some of it,” she admitted. “But I know what he’s like. I know who he is. Who he really is, and it doesn’t frighten me because I know there’s love in his heart.” She reached for her aunt’s arm, squeezing gently. “Please, Zia. Please, help me find him. I need to talk to him. To make him see reason.”
Sighing, her aunt shook her head.
“Please,” Lucia whispered. “Please.”
Zia stepped back, pulling her arm away. “No, Lucia. I’m sorry.”
The fire left her. Every other time Lucia had argued with Zia, she’d come away feeling there was some wiggle room. As if, maybe with a little more time, she could wear her aunt down. Not anymore. Zia’s face, set in stony lines, was firm. There’d be no changing her mind.
And with her fire, went her hope. It was over. Really, truly over.
“I have to go back to school, I’ll be back tonight. Tell Mom, will you?” she whispered, and walked out of the room and down the stairs.
“Your father can take you,” Zia called after her.
“I need the air,” she threw back, flinging her backpack on her shoulder, making herself stumble under the weight. “I’m walking.”
The sun was lower in the sky, and Lucia adjusted her bag, reaching for her phone to check the time. About six. It was nice having more sunlight. The days when the sun went down mid-afternoon were the worst, like interminable night.
A message appeared on her phone, sent hours ago from Aaron. “I came, you were gone. Vinnie gave me the slides you’d found. Ten down, one hundred and fifty to go.”
“Jerk,” she muttered, stuffing the phone in the front pouch. He can find his own damn slides.
Her research had taken the back burner in order to find the slides for his class. Reaching again for her pack, she found her phone and shot off a terse message. I have things to do. You’re going to have to find the rest. There. Let him chew on that.
Ignoring the alert her phone made almost immediately, she jammed it into her pocket. Rather than head back to the side of campus where the library and history department were, she decided to take a roundabout route to the museum.
Havermeyer Museum was run and curated by the university. A few days ago, she got an email from the director about a collection of William Blake illustrations. Along with an original copy of his book, Songs of Innocence, they’d also acquired the copper plates Blake had created to illustrate poetry. As further temptation, the director had hinted at copies of darker works, which were preserved beautifully.
Decision made, Lucia hurried through the streets. This path was busier, less residential. Admissions was housed on the opposite side of campus, and as a result, the closer she got to the university, the more people she had to dodge. Specialty stores selling university knickknacks and sweatshirts, expensive stationary, and book boutiques, and tiny restaurants set between familiar fast food chains, all were perfectly placed to draw in students and parents.
The museum was a Greek Revival mansion, set up on a little hill. Doric columns lined the front with large gilded doors as the entrance. Lucia bypassed the front, heading around to the employees’ entrance. Swiping her ID card unlocked the doors, and she went inside and straight for the basement. Any new collections had to be inputted and catalogued by the museum staff. Sometimes they held onto materials for weeks before displaying it.
The department where the books and plates were held was also in the basement, in a special room with specific lighting and temperature control. Lucia always imagined disease control labs being similar.
“Lucia! Como estas?” Robert, a historical preservation grad student approached her, kissing the air next to her cheek.
“Good,” she answered, dropping her bag on the ground. “I’m here for the Blake plates.”
“Oh—” He rubbed his hands together. “Come to see the lost little lamb?”
Smiling, she nodded. “You have an original?”
“Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know?” Robert quoted, smiling. “We do.” He led her to a locker room, handing her what looked like surgical scrubs but which went over her clothing. Slippers and a hair cover followed. “Gloves are in the room.”
Together, they both pulled on the coveralls. Despite knowing everyone in the museum, and being a member of the university, Lucia would never be left alone with the artifacts lest she be tempted to steal and sell them.
Dressed, Lucia followed Robert into the viewing room. He left for a moment, returning with a metal box and white cotton gloves. “Here.” He gestured to the gloves with his chin for Lucia to take.
Sliding them on, she waited excitedly for him to open the box. Slowly, he pulled out one page after another, laying each on the table. Lucia hovered over them, fingers clasped together to keep her from reaching out and touching one.
“Check out this one,” Robert breathed, laying a perfectly preserved page in front of her.
“Little Boy Found,” Lucia read quietly. “The little boy lost in the lonely fen, led by the wand’ring light.” The illustration showed a small blonde boy, hand held by a beautiful woman, a golden halo around her head. “It’s beautiful. And perfect. Not a tear.”
“I know.” Robert chuckled with the mirth only another historian could appreciate. “The book was sealed in a steamer trunk, wrapped in oilcloth. Amazing.”
“Amazing,” she agreed. Her eyes skimmed the poem, and her breath caught. For some reason, the image of the boy, being found and wrapped in love and light, reminded her of Armaros. She thought about his creation and his purpose. Why should humans be more important to the divine than Armaros and his sister? They were as deserving of love and forgiveness as her.
“Wait until you see these,” Robert interrupted her thoughts. He dropped his gloves on the table and left, returning a second later with another metal box. Unlatching the locks, he put his gloves back on and reached inside. “Copper plates,” he told her, pulling one shiny metal rectangle from the depths of the box. “For Milton’s Paradise Lost.”
“Oh, my God,” Lucia whispered in disbelief as he placed the first plate on the table.
“This one is Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels,” he told her. The plate, without color to guide her, took a moment for her to make sense of. Eventually, she was able to see a muscular figure, arms raised, standing in front of rays of light while preaching to angelic figures. “Here.” Robert handed her a magnifying glass. “Look at the angels’ faces.”
Each face was unique, wearing expressions of boredom, shock, and despair. “What’s on their wrists?” Lucia asked, seeing a small raised curve near each of the angels’ hands.
“Chains,” Robert replied. “The cuffs that bound them to golden chains.”
Closing her eyes, Lucia lowered the magnifying glass.
“Are you okay?” Robert asked. “Your face is white as a sheet. If you’re sick, you gotta get out of here.”
“I’m not sick,” Lucia whispered. In her mind, Armaros’s face replaced those of the fallen angels. His despair and confusion as he sprawled in a pit of fire, a reminder of his choice on his body, the flames licking his back and wings. It was too much. “But I need to go.” Her heart thudded. Robert had removed one more plate, and she happened to glimpse it, gasping. “What is that?”
“The Rout of Rebel Angels,” Robert explained before hastily putting it back inside the box. Despite her assurance that she was fine, he clearly wasn’t taking any chances.
Shakily, Lucia stood. Without a backwards glance, she left and returned to the locker room. Her hands trembled as she removed the coveralls, the image of the final plate burned into her brain— angels falling upside down, hands cove
ring their heads, some with fingers locked in prayers begging forgiveness while serene-faced angels stared from above.
And a figure, muscular and robed, shooting arrows as large as spears into their helpless, tumbling bodies.
Lucia
Lucia escaped the museum and sucked in a great breath of cool night air. She sighed audibly, her throat tight. Things weren’t getting easier; the passage of time did not make her miss Armaros and Delia any less.
And she didn’t want to. She wanted their faces at the forefront of her mind, or better yet, she wanted them in front of her. She wanted to touch them and hug them, and hear their voices.
It wasn’t enough to have changed her dissertation as a way to touch Armaros’s past; at the end of her research, she wouldn’t find him and hold him. Instead, she’d superimposed his face on illustrations, her heart breaking for the pain he’d suffered, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She got to be full of anger and yearning and hurt and had to live with it. Delia and Armaros were her family. She loved them and she had no way to show them.
Lucia started across campus, not knowing where she was going. A group of students idled past, and she followed them, trailing in their wake. When they branched off, going into a dorm, Lucia shadowed a different group of students, her eyes on their shoes and not on where she was. Each step was like a heartbeat. Her mind went over her situation as she searched for solutions.
Because she couldn’t keep going like this. She didn’t care about the risk to herself. She wanted her family back.
Someone bumped into her shoulder and she glanced up, surprised. “Sorry,” the person apologized, hurrying away.
Lucia watched the well-dressed woman, heels clicking against the pavement, hurry up the steps into the chapel. Yellow light spilled outside as an usher opened the door, and the strains of a violin washed over Lucia.
The music called to her, beautiful melodies reaching like a caring hand to pull Lucia inside. An usher opened the door for her, glancing down at her outfit. Examining her clothes, she realized she was underdressed for a concert. Still, she wanted to be inside and when he didn’t stop her or ask to see her ticket, she went in.
The Darkest Fall Page 20
