Why can’t I get this? I asked her. She was never the most emotional individual. Hugs were scarcely abundant, and nothing less than grievous harm brought her running. There wasn’t a wall to Maya Stewart, thrown up to keep the world out. She was a simple woman who liked to smoke and watch Wheel of Fortune, but did not react to the insecurities of her fostered niece.
Am I stupid or something?
This place— Atlas, a wonder of gold and white pillars with red carpets and stone roads and stars above and below— renders me the equivalent of that six-year-old child. But instead of Maya and her menthol cigarettes, it is a robed elder who ignores my juvenile bewilderment, leading me into a chamber beyond the Spire’s towering entryway.
The painted tower before the auditorium announces its authority to the city it rules. The inner chamber is more subtle — its ceilings are pitched lower than the iron ramparts running around the Spire, keeping undesirables out. Its central location makes sense, like placing the Joint Chiefs at the heart of the Pentagon, rather than on the outskirts. But this is no Pentagon or White House I’ve ever seen. It puts the most timeless Greek and Roman architecture to shame, with carved stone pillars forming a circle around the room’s centerpiece, connected by a stone ring that links them.
The carvings depict many of the same events painted into the Spire’s ceiling— the rise of Ziz, his downfall; the Nephalim uprising and the Burning Spire. The ground is soft beneath my feet like grass, but inspection proclaims this some kind of sorcery, as the surface is a dark marble. The ceiling is a dome; nowhere near as endless as the room before it, but its illusion of stars sparkling overhead reminds me of the Arcway where I was reincarnated.
The floor depresses into a rotunda in the room’s center. The entrancing pillars precede two short steps downward on all sides, leading to a circular platform. Two steps up the northernmost side, five enormous chairs loom over the audience.
Barrett is silent, stopping before the beings who sit within those chairs. The second from the far right is empty. The other four are occupied by distinctive figures; one dressed like a Viking occupies the far left, with hollow white irises and a fiery beard. Another in the shape of a man is aglow, his flesh like glowing lava, his eyes yellow like a cat’s. A woman with a head of snakes sits between them, hands gracefully in lap. Her skin-tight dress makes it hard to tell where the scantily-clad chest ends and beige fabric begins. The empty seat on the Fire Man’s other flank divides him from an old man on the end with a flowing white beard. His hair and robes are a purity of white most people would probably associate with God Himself. His eyes remain closed, chin pointed to the ground, either waiting for the next item on the agenda to surface or too senile to keep up.
The Council’s members are all enormous— the Viking alone must be twenty feet tall. All are unmoved by my presence. I am a fly on the wall, and they are inexplicably able to swat me from existence. My eyes drift to the empty chair as Barrett steps ahead of me to address this league of supreme beings.
“Your Eminences. I present Ramona Knox, as your summons requested.”
I’m still waiting for someone to tell me this is a dream. The Maester bows his head, stepping out of the central circle toward the back of the room, leaving me to their judgement.
The room darkens like dimmed lights before a matinee, and everything falls quiet. The only source of light manifests from the Fire Man’s glow. The red effect pours onto the snake woman’s head, giving the creatures’ snapping jaws another menacing layer. Some catch on others, and retaliate by biting the offending snakes’ necks. One dies in the altercation— its severed head falls to the floor between her and the Fire Man. It struggles for last breaths before dissolving to ash and evaporating. The snoring old man at the end takes no notice of these proceedings and I find myself suddenly missing Barrett’s presence.
Hell, even Tim would be welcome right now.
I shouldn't have run away from him.
“Ramona Knox,” the Viking says, standing from his equally uncompromising chair. The floor groans under the enormous being’s weight. Each step trembles the ground beneath my feet, and his voice booms through the auditorium. “You are in the presence of the Grand Council of Atlas, standing on charges against the cosmic realms; as an accomplice to the World-Killer, and in failure to heed the infallibility of the natural order. How do you plead?”
The amicable conversations with Maesters Siskett and Barrett are not present here. I have broken some sort of higher law, and Barrett’s words return to me.
The Council has undergone a great deal of trouble, Miss Knox. Much of it lies with the infectorum mundi, but you also played a part.
“Guilty,” I say, without a second to consider the consequences. “I was given a responsibility to save a little girl’s life. The opportunity to do that arose, and I took it to save her. With all due respect, that was the job I signed up for, and I would do it again.”
I don’t know how much gods know about humanity’s darkest depths. Even the most nonchalant, inattentive creator must have some idea we’re a lot of fucking assholes. But from the moment the FBI told me to stop Jordan West, I gave everything to accomplish it— right down to my life.
The Viking is silent for a moment. The elder on the end rouses; it is short-lived, and he soons lowers his chin, returning to dozing.
“Venicia.”
The being’s command hails the woman with a head of snakes to attention. She is smaller than him, but no less breathtaking; her dress ripples in standing to join his side.
“Explain it to her,” the Viking commands.
The serpents doubling as strands of hair fall still when she speaks, hands clasped at her waist.
“Forgive him,” she says, gesturing to her companion who takes his seat. “The Habinar is the chief justice of this Council. He is bound by duty to dispense rulings along lines which may no longer be relevant.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. The Habinar, as Venicia christened him, lifts his peach-colored nose, looking over its end at me, clearly unimpressed with the present circumstances. Likewise, the Fire Man does not stir for inane questioning of matters beyond my understanding.
“It means this Council faces whispers of a greater threat than any we have ever faced. The Breach was only the beginning of a chain of events that have spun beyond this Council’s grasp on basic security over Atlas, if there is a shred of truth to these rumors.
“This infrastructure has weathered eons of conflict,” Venicia continues. “We have withstood demonic invasions and uprisings in the ranks of our very own Nephalim. Mistakes have been made, but control was ultimately maintained.”
“Then,” I reply, “what use do you possibly have for me?”
Venicia and the Habinar share a glance before she resumes. The snakes draping to her shoulders are nothing like her kind eyes and gentle voice, but vicious creatures that reflect the hard choices their kind are faced with.
“I will not lie, Miss Knox. This Council— despite its misgivings with the World-Killer and his accomplices— has watched your life with great interest. Our agents have analyzed your relationship with Death, and deduced investment in you was perhaps the most apt of his choices. Your handling of the Jordan West case gives the majority of this Council faith in your ability to help us.”
The Fire Man has been quiet before now, other than his provision of light through the auditorium. The accent is unfamiliar from his silhouette of a mouth, which has no tongue and is completely black beyond non-existent lips. The closest I could place it is French.
“Venicia puts it lightly, mortal. The Seat of Atlas has consulted its sources, and the information coming from the ground level is...disturbing, to say the least.”
Venicia does not appreciate the Fire Man’s interruption— the snakes swing like little pendulums turning back to cast her glare at the slouching elemental being in his oversized stone chair.
“While Muerkher has a point, this is not yet a crisis. We are merely employing the m
ost rigid of precautions.”
The Fire Man scoffs.
“Precaution? We are talking about a coup against this Council, Venicia! The whispers aren’t mistaken! The same ones who warned us about Tomas, yes? The children and varmints of Atlas, who predicted the Nephalim uprising! Are you say their warnings are circumspect?”
“Not at all, Muerkher,” she retorts, not glancing back this time. “But panic is not a desirable trait in uncertain times. A steady hand must catch the whispers, or we risk empty air.”
“Spare me your poetry, woman! This was your idea. I am tentatively backing your motion to involve this troublesome mortal, so tread carefully! You have Apollo's vote,” the Fire Man says, pointing to the sleeping one, “but I’m not sure he’s lucid enough to remember it!”
“Hold up,” I interrupt. “So the sleeping guy is not God, right?”
At the look the three conscious beings and an empty chair return, this may not be the time for my insipid questions. I shake my head at the floor, and they resume fighting.
“So what do you suggest, Venicia? We send her against these rumors? You want to place our odds of survival in this little... thing? Seriously!”
“And what do you suggest, Muerkher? We sit idly by, waiting for these rumors to become fact? Or should we signal to our potential enemies we know of their plan, when we send the Royal Guard kicking down doors? Aumothera’s sake, are you trying to start a city-wide conflict?”
Aumothera?
“No,” Muerkher says, the lava-like glow brightening in intensity with each challenge from his peer. “But we might dispatch actual Nephalim to deal with this, rather than someone with no knowledge of how Atlas works, Venicia?”
“Considering the last uprising was thanks to Nephalim—”
“And how long are you going to bring up Tomas as a reason to sideline our most important line of defense?”
“Really, Muerkher?” Venicia snipes, finally snapping her gaze to his smug pout and crossed arms. “And should we get into Gabriel?”
The glowing man falls quiet. There is some truth to her invocation of this name. But it is a line in the sand for the Habinar, who has sat quietly by as they argued.
“The question seems to be whether we can trust this woman. She has been the cause of such trouble that were it up to me alone, she would warrant eternal damnation.
“Considering the threat this Council faces, I am compelled to break the tie.” The Habinar stands once more, joining Venicia’s side, towering over both of us. “Let the mortal prove herself. No Nephalim has ever won the faith of Atlas without some kind of test— let her make amends before coming to a final decision.”
Venicia thinks on this.
“I agree. Muerkher?”
The Fire Man unhinges the left side of his jaw, moving the black hole that stands for his mouth.
“Very well. But make it challenging, at least?”
“It will be an appropriate task, but so too will she not be alone.” She hangs on Muerkher’s puzzled frown, letting him stew in wonder. “We will send Luca.”
“No!” The Fire Man’s face bunches, brightening his complexion even further. “That is cheating!”
“We can tell him to evaluate her,” Venicia says. “Luca knows this city better than any Nephalim, and can wield a sword like few others. But he will not offer operational support. Is that sufficient, Muerkher?”
The Fire Man relents. Receiving a nod of encouragement from the Habinar, Venicia refocuses on me. She is sort of beautiful, were it not for the head of savage creatures that hunger for each other’s blood.
“Very well, Miss Knox. You have been given a great opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of this Council. Maester Barrett and Luca will dispense the task expected of you. Should you be successful, return to this Council, and we will take the next steps.”
Venicia and the Habinar take their seats. Muerkher’s surface dims as the overhead lights resume, casting artificial cones of light over the rotunda. The Council members return to a dormant state; the Habinar’s head falls to the side as Venicia, still clasping her hands around her lap, closes her eyes. Her head points to the floor, its snakes also fallen still. Apollo, who snoozed through the entire exchange, never moves.
Stunned by the events of the last few hours— if time is even a concept in this strange, wonderful place— I barely notice Maesters Barrett and Siskett behind me, waiting to travel wherever it is they dispense orders in the world of immortality.
“Are you ready?” Barrett asks.
For Aumothera’s sake, not even close— whatever in the world an Aumothera is.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was never a prime candidate for falling in love. Like anyone else, I was subject to my fair share of romantic movies that play on rainy Sunday nights while you drink entire bottles of red wine by yourself. You steal glances at the emphysematic aunt you must take care of; she took you in when a monster shot your mother at the bottom of a gravel pit.
You were only two, and faced a lifetime of punishment in the foster care system because both your parents were miserable fuck-ups. That woman saved you, and now slept as you hopelessly watched sappy films with only her oxygen-starved snores for company.
Those movies were all the same to some degree. There was a flawed, hunky man who seemed incapable of holding down a modicum of relationship-material values. Enter the independent dame with a questionable disposition who's been hurt one too many times. She's a career woman, because any movie with a shred of common sense makes her more than a kitchen-bound housewife. They meet and immediately dislike each other. They keep crossing paths— soon enough, all the whores in the world can't compare to her. All the unfulfillment of her career is offset by him, and we're off to the fucking races.
Other than the career-woman template, I was completely beyond those stereotypes. The only men I attracted were flies looking for shit to land on and lay all their eggs of insecurity. My only other companion was a celestial being who came and went as he pleased, manipulating me all the way.
The World-Killer, they call him now.
I doubt Maesters know much about romantic subplots; all mine are hay-wire, better left unmentioned. The last man I dated turned out to be complicit in a child abduction scheme. But now I'm in Oz, planes of existence away from Ryan Royce's vile associations. In a wonderland they call Atlas, I am Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole of the supreme realm's dimensions.
The city of Atlas is divided into uneven districts called quadrants. Their proportions put each closer to an eighth of the circular floating city which, as Siskett and Barrett take turns explaining, are usually named for a major landmark within them.. There’s the Observatory District and the Coliseum District which is home to the contradictorily-named Arena.
The Cathedral and Coliseum Districts sandwich the Observatory behind the Seat and Spire where the Council resides. The three northern neighborhoods are surrounded on either side by two more districts called the Light and Dark Quadrants— home to the angel statues symmetrically guarding the enclaved Spire.
"The Dark Quadrant," Siskett explains, “is also home to the notorious soul prison, Stone Mountain."
Entering the Atlas's Observatory district, the winding stair is low to the ground, immaculately kept despite the horizon beyond it. There is no blue sky over the Observatory like above the Spire, but a panorama of stars leading down into an endless nebula.
"And the Light Quadrant?"
"Mostly residential," Barrett answers as we draw closer to the domed structure at the pathway's peak. The building’s open iron doors are similar to the Spire, leading through a short hallway before arriving at a second set. A stone fountain is set on a plateau halfway up the staircase — its spouting centerpiece is the same god depicted in the Spire walls, offering cupped palms from which water plunges to the frilled basin below it.
Ascending the stairs, a silhouette emerges between the spread doors on the paved hilltop leading inside. I squint to see them, but canno
t make out the newcomer.
"Ah, there's Luca now!"
The first thing to come into focus is the giant broadsword with a golden hilt. It protrudes outward from his hip where the blade is sheathed on a sheepskin belt. The armor matches his compatriots at the gates of Atlas, though without the winged helmet. A set of bleached wings protrude from his shoulder blades. They are magnificent, arching away from his golden blond hair and down. He looms over all of us— nowhere as large as the Habinar or Muerkher, but at least eight feet tall.
"Hello, Luca!" Barrett cheerily calls as we make our approach. Wary of strangers, I remain in back, trying to be observant. "Has the Council informed you of today's task?"
"Yes," the blond man says, hand rested on the enormous hilt pointed in front of him. "Everything is ready, Maester."
Barrett turns to me.
"Luca is one of the Council's most trusted generals. He is not a Nephalim, due to personal matters that have barred his line from taking up the privilege. He holds special status as the Council's military advisor."
"I see."
"Luca will be assessing you today— seeing if your skills can be useful to the Council's predicament."
"And what will this...assessment consist of?"
The angel grimaces.
"I understand you are new to Atlas. Therefore, I have no way of knowing how much misinformation you are in possession of. So you might be slightly in the dark. All I can tell you is, much like your realm, there are...competing interests at work."
"’Competing interests'?"
Barrett takes over— Siskett has drifted to the background, nothing more to offer than his company.
"As we discussed in the Spire, Atlas has a storied and conflicted history. We have spoken somewhat of Ziz, and the ever present threat he poses to all Creation—"
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