by Vivian Shaw
With the are, he widened his eyes slightly, and Greta—even out of direct line-of-sight—felt the faint silvery dissociation of his thrall. Van Dorne’s face went blank.
“I’m an amateur Egyptologist,” she said dully. “And a collector.”
“So what’s with you failing to age?” said Greta. “Did you unearth some kind of mystic ancient time machine?”
“Not a time machine,” said Van Dorne. “A spell.”
Greta looked up at Varney, a sudden yawning pit of horror opening up before her. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“And how did this spell work?” he asked, and perhaps only someone who knew him as well as Greta could hear the effort with which he was keeping his voice calm and gentle.
“Drew… power, energy, force… from artifacts,” said Van Dorne, sounding vague. “I have lots of them—little things that don’t matter, ushabtis, cosmetic jars, amulets—oh—my pectoral—on the plane…” Her hand went to her chest as if to grasp something that was no longer there. “It… they crumble…”
Greta had been this angry only once before in her life; it felt like a ball of burning metal in her chest, rapidly heating from dull red to an incandescent white. Varney’s hand on her shoulder tightened slightly. “Where did you find the spell?” he said, and yes, all right, they did need to know that and then perhaps she could hit Van Dorne very hard, even if she didn’t know how to punch somebody. She’d figure it out.
“In a dream,” Van Dorne said. “In a dream. A papyrus. Just a thing I’d bought… in an auction lot… and never got around to looking at. I dreamed of it… exactly as I found it… the picture was so clear…”
“Did it look different from the others?” Greta asked sharply.
“No,” she said. “Just exactly the same… only the text was different.”
“Egyptian, but not a text you recognized.”
“Yes,” said Van Dorne. “I translated it… and thought it was just another spell… and after a while I tried it…”
“And it worked,” said Varney. “Obviously. But it wears off, doesn’t it?”
Van Dorne nodded unhappily. “Faster now.”
“She wanted to destroy the fucking stela to zap herself back to sweet sixteen,” Greta said flatly. “I can’t believe this. Varney, snap her out of it. I think it’s time Ms. Van Dorne met a few friends of mine.”
Varney closed his eyes, cutting off the thrall; Van Dorne gave a faint sigh and seemed to come back to herself, blinking at them. “What just happened?”
“You painted your self-centered awfulness in some pretty broad strokes,” said Greta, getting up. “Come with me.”
She waited for Varney to haul the woman to her feet—who the hell wore four-inch heels to travel in, the rich truly were a different species—and then led the way out of the reception area back into the clinical side of the spa, heading for the inpatient ward. The bright-hot ball of anger in her chest pulsed like a second heart, nearly in time with her footsteps.
“What is this place?” Van Dorne managed. She was being propelled along by Varney’s hands on her upper arms, without much choice in the matter.
“I told you. Private mummy spa and resort. Right now it’s not really all that recreation-oriented, as you’ll see in a minute.” Greta stopped outside Antjau’s room, checked the charts on the door. “This is Mr. Antjau, undergoing treatment for tuberculosis, which as I’m sure you’ll agree, is bad enough without you sucking all the juice out of something that belonged to him.”
“What—” said Van Dorne, but Greta was already knocking on the door; at Antjau’s weak “Come in,” she opened it. Ignoring the gasp behind her, she crossed the room to Antjau’s bed—still piled high with pillows, the bed’s head raised to help him breathe—and stood beside it. He looked a little better, she thought: Djehuty’s visit really must have done him good.
“Mr. Antjau,” she said in a rather different tone than the one she’d just been using, “if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to tell Ms. Van Dorne here about the fainting episode you experienced a little while ago.”
“Oh… certainly,” he said, sounding puzzled, but obliged. Greta watched Van Dorne, arms folded, while the mummy’s whistling creak of a voice described the sudden terrible weakness and dizziness, the inability to breathe, having to struggle even to push the call button. Van Dorne’s expression went through a series of changes—shock, disbelief, a kind of horrified guilt that settled into nausea.
“And this happened twice,” Greta said when he’d finished. “Thank you so much, Mr. Antjau. We’ll leave you to rest now.”
“Is something happening?” he asked.
“I believe we may have discovered the cause of the attacks,” she said gently. “Which means I can stop any more of them from occurring.”
Antjau curled a shaky hand around her arm. “Really?” he rasped.
“Really,” said Greta, feeling Van Dorne’s stare. “Get some sleep. Sister Brigitte will be here to check on you in a little while.”
“Thank you,” he said, and squeezed her arm for a brief moment before letting go.
Greta rejoined the others, shut the door behind them. “That’s one of the patients your little stunt has hurt. There are quite a few others to visit. Maanakhtef, for example. The second time you used up something of his, he collapsed on the floor and shattered most of his left side. I had to spend nearly nine hours repairing the damage, and some of it I couldn’t: some of him had turned to powder—if you’re going to be ill, kindly do it in the washroom. End of the hall.”
CHAPTER 14
Amitiel and Zophiel had been separated from one another on their return and, in fact, had spent the time since they had regained Heaven in isolation, all-white cells with no decoration at all other than a golden crucifix on one wall, without furniture. From time to time they were interrogated by other angels—identical, all of them, impossible to tell apart but for their voices and the cloaks some of the higher-ranking individuals wore.
Being back in Heaven felt wonderful, of course. Back where they were meant to be, in God’s presence; the constant nagging awareness of being surrounded by the other world’s sinners and filthiness was gone, but in its place the angels had begun to notice a different kind of discomfort: something that might be described as boredom, or as a desire for one another’s company, which they had never felt before: being in Heaven, being in the brilliance and glory of His regard, had always been more than enough joy to suffuse their consciousnesses, and now…
Well, now it felt as if they’d lost something.
Zophiel could picture Amitiel sitting disconsolately on the stone floor of his chamber, looking up every time somebody came in; could picture the other angels speaking sharply to him, asking the same questions over and over again—the plan was not executed as intended, another power’s manipulation of magic caused the rift, why was this allowed to occur, control over the matter was lost, why were you unable to perform the duties you had been assigned—and Amitiel not being able to answer. Or—not being able to answer satisfactorily.
He was very much aware of an uncharacteristic desire to be with the other angel, to—comfort him, to curve a wing around him in protection. Zophiel didn’t know why exactly, only that it seemed necessary, and that the people asking them questions were unkind in some way, which was an absolutely strange thing to think about the heavenly host, about the high-ranking angels who had sent them out to complete God’s mission in the other world.
They had been brought ambrosia and nectar, and it was just as lovely as Zophiel remembered, but he found himself missing the quite ordinary and not even slightly glowing-gold herbal tea he and Amitiel had drunk in the other world’s New York, and not knowing how to ask for such a thing: he should not want anything but nectar and ambrosia; it was as if something was wrong with him that he had not noticed going wrong, and did not know how to fix.
He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on. Back on the other Earth, he and Amitiel hadn�
�t really considered this part very clearly, what would happen after they had weakened the barrier sufficiently for the invasion to occur: it wasn’t their job, what they were for—that was the business of the Archangels, with His blessing, who had come up with the plan. All they had thought about was following orders: making it possible for the next stage of the overarching plan to take place, not the logistics of how that stage would be carried out. Nor had they thought there would be so many questions to answer.
He was kneeling on the floor of the cell, wings folded quietly, looking up at the crucifix on the wall with blank golden eyes, when the door behind him opened again. “Zophiel,” someone said. “It is time. You have been granted the gift of permission to witness the glory of our hour of triumph and righteousness.”
Zophiel rose, knees aching a little—that was another thing, he had never experienced discomfort or fatigue in Heaven before—and let the other angel take his arm; the touch was cold. “Is—where is Amitiel?” he asked.
“Amitiel will be granted permission also,” said the angel, sounding as if it didn’t necessarily agree with the decision, and walked him briskly down the white-on-white corridor.
“May I see him?”
“There is no need,” said the angel, and Zophiel was slightly horrified to find a spark of resentment somewhere inside his own chest, where it did not belong: there was no such thing as resentment in Heaven, what was wrong with him, was he broken somehow—had the mortal world left such a taint on him that it could not be removed?
The angel took him up a flight of steps and out to a pearl-and-agate balcony, crowded with other angels, their wings brushing together as they talked in an undertone. He knew where he was now: this was one of the galleries overlooking the central courtyard of Heaven’s jeweled city. Above them the ruby battlements glowed like wine; the walls of many precious stones caught the clear endless light in a vast panoply of color against which the white wings of the angels were brilliant, snow-pure, giving off their own faint shine.
Down below in the courtyard stood massed ranks of angels dressed in white and gold, wearing breastplates of electrum; each held in its lovely hand a golden sword, and at the head of the ranks stood the Archangel Michael. His armor was even brighter and more beautiful than that of his soldiers; he was difficult to look directly at for very long.
It struck Zophiel—perhaps for the first time—that there would be a great deal of violence. He had known they were preparing for a holy war, a righteous crusade, but until now the actual ramifications of that had seemed—academic. Distant. Now, as he looked at the swords, it was suddenly very present indeed.
As Zophiel stared down at the host of Heaven, a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention: he turned to see Amitiel standing on a different balcony across the courtyard, waving at him, and watched as the angel standing beside Amitiel caught his forearm and forced it down again. Again that spark of resentment flared and faded inside his chest.
The Archangel was saying something. A speech. Zophiel found it difficult to pay attention to, although the words were the sort of thing designed to strike fire and determination into the listeners’ hearts: righteousness, triumph, the downfall of all things evil and sullied and made unclean. The great day of the Lord is near, and hasteth: the sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood; the enemies of the Lord who take His name in vain and profane the very thought of Heaven in their iniquity will be driven into utter darkness, and the world made pure.
Zophiel watched as the Archangel raised his golden sword, as the host of angels raised theirs in response, and although he knew what was coming, it was still a shock to see every blade burst into flame at once: a thousand brilliant bars of light raised skyward in salute.
We march forth, said Michael, and the army raised its massed voice; as one, every angel turned, and the footfalls in unison as they began to march out of the city shook the paving stones beneath Zophiel’s feet. Michael spread his wings and sprang into the air, flying to take up position at the head of the marching column, flaming sword in his hand—
—and Zophiel looked across the courtyard at Amitiel, and recognized the look on his face; it was the same one he was wearing himself. Puzzlement and confusion. They were the only angels in all of Heaven who were silent in the midst of the vast and many-voiced cheer.
What is wrong with me? he thought again, and could not excise the image of those flaming swords raised in salute: could not unsee the brilliant coruscating light of all those blades. Could not unthink the clear and present realization that swords were meant to slay, that every last one of them would be slicked over with golden ichor by the time this was complete.
What happened to angels, when they were killed?
He and Amitiel had had almost a year to think about this part, and somehow he had failed to spend much time considering what it would actually mean, to—invade another Heaven, to slaughter its inhabitants, to destroy what was so obviously a false and profane facsimile of their Heaven, the only true Heaven, where things were right and just and correct; they had spent so long on the false and profane Earth without giving any thought to the next phase of the plan.
I’m not supposed to think, Zophiel told himself. I’m supposed to—adore. That’s what I’m for, I’m an angel; when can I stop thinking and just be again, just float in His regard, do His bidding—
He looked around at the rest of the rejoicing host, and with dawning horror began to realize he no longer felt like one of them.
That he no longer belonged.
He had wanted to come home for so long, so very badly, and his hands tightened on the pearl parapet at the thought that perhaps it would—perhaps it could—never truly be his home again.
Grisaille had had enough single-malt by now to be actually enjoying himself, despite the fact that he was in Hell and the lake over there was actively on fire. Ruthven looked like himself again, not the grey-pale ghost he’d been when they first got here, and reluctantly Grisaille had to admit Hell had done him quite a lot of good.
“So you’re helping with the whole who’s fucking with reality this time analysis?” he asked. They had found a quite nice little café in the ground floor of one of the towers and were sitting outside under a red umbrella. Demons came and went around them without paying much attention. It felt a bit like Paris had done, except Parisians tended not to have wings or tails as a matter of course.
(The ears on legs were freaky. There was no way around that. They were also extremely cute, which Grisaille found amusing: they ran around a little bit like pigeons, in flocks, and wore very small medieval-looking hose.)
“It was either that or die of boredom,” said Ruthven, and swirled his drink. “And I’m good at spotting patterns. Fass let me help, and I found some evidence that shows this has been going on for eighty years or so, but recently seems to have accelerated a lot, presumably due to whatever’s attacking Greta’s mummies.”
“What does that mean?”
Ruthven sighed, and was about to reply when abruptly, suddenly, the perfectly pleasant day changed. Black clouds poured up the sky like ink; a rapid rising wind swirled leaves across the plaza; a brief flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder that left Grisaille’s ears ringing. He stared at Ruthven, who stared back and got to his feet.
“Come on,” Ruthven said. “I have a feeling something’s just gone rather dramatically wrong.”
Back on the thirtieth floor, the previously chaotic M&E bullpen had gone into full crisis mode: alarm sirens were going off, teleprinters rattling out loop after loop of data on ribbons of paper, demons rushing around shouting into their phones. Nobody noticed Grisaille or Ruthven in the slightest.
“What the hell is going on?” Grisaille said over the background din. He was just drunk enough to be faintly dissociated from how frightened he thought he probably ought to be.
Ruthven seized his hand, tugged him back out of the chaos, into the elevator once more, thumbed the button for the
sixtieth floor. “I have a feeling the weather in Hell might have something to do with the mood of its ruler,” he said as they rose with stomach-dropping rapidity—one of the walls of the shaft was glass above the fortieth floor of the tower and the view of the plaza falling away beneath them did not do Grisaille’s head any favors—“and I want to know what’s got him this infuriated all of a sudden.” Rain lashed the glass wall, curtains of it drifting across their view; the burning lake didn’t seem to take any notice, merely a bright smear through the blur.
Grisaille wondered, slightly hysterically, if he was perhaps hallucinating all of this and would shortly come to his senses, but he hadn’t drunk anybody’s actual blood in—however long it had been, let alone got himself a bona fide junkie. The faint ding of the elevator drawing to a halt was absurdly ordinary under the circumstances, but when the doors opened on a white-on-white corridor full of hurrying demons, he stopped and stared until Ruthven grabbed his hand again.
“This way,” he said, “Samael’s conference room, I’m pretty sure that’s where he’ll be—”
In fact, they could hear him before they got there, the beautiful bell-like voice raised. Nobody was watching the door, and they were able to slip in, and stop, staring at what was on the massive screen at the other end of the room. The crowd of demons around them was frozen in horror; Grisaille had no idea who any of them were, but a few seemed clearly important.
“—don’t know where they’re coming from—” what looked like an angel was saying on the screen, wide-eyed. It had a halo. In the background were yells, screams, the sounds of a struggle. “They’re angels but they’re not us, they’re not from here, there’s so many and they’ve all got swords—”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” said the Devil, running his hands through his curls. “Of course they’re not from your Heaven, they’re from a different universe. I told you, I told you something was happening, Gabriel, you absolute idiot, I warned you—all our monitors are going mad, the point of origin’s expanding, it’s an interreality septal defect of massive proportions and it’s only going to get bigger—think of a balloon bursting in slow motion—”
