by C. Gockel
From across the field, Iris stepped out onto the porch. Other Nephilim around the farm stopped to see if they would need to intervene before Michaela unleashed a tornado.
“I did what I thought was best,” her voice rasped with anger. “The Aethere don’t have all the power anymore. I’m sorry they are hurting more angels, but I’m glad someone is finally questioning the Aethere.”
Gabriel jumped to his feet. A raindrop fell on her cheek, sliding down and dripping from her jaw. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. Gabriel pointed a finger at her face. The air snapped around her, and she heard a clap of thunder.
“You should have fixed this quietly! Now it’s the whole world’s fight. People are dying. Angels are being desecrated. Too many people will pay a high price for this.”
She slapped his finger away. “You mean you’ve paid too high a price. I didn’t ask you for anything. It was your decision to sign over your soul.”
Michaela was surprised her voice wasn’t shaking, because her whole body trembled. The rain fell harder now. Her hair plastered to her head with tendrils wrapping around her face.
Gabriel stepped closer until they were practically nose-to-nose. The wind picked up. It sliced through her thin robe. “The Michaela I knew would have never unleashed those monsters into the world. Whatever is inside of you has made you as bad as Lucifer.”
“How dare you?”
Something in Michaela’s voice, maybe the toneless manner, silenced Gabriel. He had given up on her, but her eyes said she had given up on him too. The Nephilim drew close now, close enough to hear. The rain drove itself to the ground in slanting, drenching sheets.
Finally, Michaela turned away from his empty stare. He was an empty, burning hole. If she looked close enough, she felt, at that moment, she would see Hell itself inside him. She took a step away.
“You proved your point.” Gabriel shook his head in disgust. “I hope it was worth it. I really do, Michaela, because you have started something that will be the end of everything. The Aethere are calling for the End of Days.” He grabbed her chin ruthlessly, his grip like a vice. “The End of Days, Michaela. You did this.”
Michaela jerked her chin from his grip. She was quiet for a long moment, watching him. Gabriel smirked, satisfied he had hurt her enough.
She would never forgive herself, and she felt a deep, bottomless guilt for the humans who had died and the angels who were exiled. But she remembered her dream, the way the fires had smelled and the screams had sounded, and she recalled how everything had come to an end, even Heaven and Hell. If Abel got his hands on the Seven Seals, everyone would die. Before Abel could end the world, he needed to be stopped. She had to show the other holy angels who he really was. She hated what she had done at the research center, but not enough to regret her decision. Her face was hard.
“Maybe it’s time for the end,” she said.
Gabriel jerked. “What?”
Michaela glanced to the Nephilim standing around her. Far away, back on the front porch, Michaela saw Clark in his wheelchair watching her. She turned back to Gabriel.
“You don’t mean that,” Gabriel whispered, shocked. She felt the harsh, angry air around him shatter like a glass wall. He stepped toward her, his face scrubbed clean of the anger. He was almost normal aside from the black in his eyes.
“This could never have been fixed quietly. The Aethere saw to that. They thought,” her eyes narrowed, and she pointed a finger at Gabriel, “and you thought, that I would just give up because I was too beat down and too broken to fight back. Do you think because of this,” Michaela turned her finger to the dark scars on her arm, “that I wasn’t worthy to fight for Heaven anymore?”
Gabriel’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her, his expression stricken. He opened his mouth like he might beg her to take the words back. Michaela stepped away from him, shaking her head.
“I am. I am worthy. I was the only one to stand up for what was right. Just like every time before when I was the General, I made the hard decisions. I shielded everyone from the pain and took it on myself. And now I will be the one to save this world, and apparently I will do it alone. Do you want to know something else?” she asked, mocking him like he had mocked her. She turned so she could see everyone. “The Aethere accused me of organizing an attack on Heaven. They said I wanted to start a war. Well, you know what?”
Her glare leveled on Gabriel. In that moment, she hated him. She hated everyone. They had made her this way, and then they had the nerve to judge her for what she had become. It was time for a change.
“I do.”
~FIN~
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THINGS UNSEEN
A Long-Forgotten Song Book 1
C. J. Brightley
History student Aria Forsyth's studies lead her to dangerous questions about the Empire's origins. A mysterious man named Owen, impervious to the winter cold, further unravels the safety of the world she thought she knew. At first, Aria believes Owen is human. He says he's not. What if they're both wrong?
A moment's compassion draws her into a conflict between human and inhuman, natural and supernatural, and she begins to discover the secrets of the Empire, the Fae, and what it means to be human.
Acknowledgments
Thank you for being my hero, Stephen. I am immensely grateful to my parents for their encouragement and advice. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my wonderful beta readers Sarah, Megan, Laura, Pat, and Doug.
Chapter One
Researching this thesis is an exercise in dedication, frustration, making up stuff, pretending I know what I’m doing, and wondering why nothing adds up. Aria swirled her coffee and stared at the blank page in her notebook.
Why did I decide to study history? She flipped back to look at her notes and sighed. She couldn’t find enough information to even form a coherent thesis. The records were either gone or had never existed in the first place. Something had happened when the Revolution came to power, but she didn’t know what, and she couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when it had occurred.
The nebulous idea she’d had for her research seemed even more useless now. She’d been trying to find records of how things had changed since the Revolution, how the city had grown and developed. There were official statistics on the greater prosperity, the academic success of the city schools, and the vast reduction in crime. The statistics didn’t mention the abandoned buildings, the missing persons, or any grumbling against the curfew. At least it was later now; for a year, curfew had been at dusk.
She glanced around the bookstore at the other patrons. A man wearing a business suit was browsing in the self-help section, probably trying to improve his public speaking. A girl, probably another student, judging by her worn jeans and backpack, was sitting on the floor in the literary fiction section, completely engrossed in a book.
Aria flipped to the front of the book again. It was a memoir of someone she’d never heard of. She’d picked it up almost at random, and flipped to the middle, hoping to find something more interesting than dead ends. The words told of a walk in the forest, and for a moment Aria was there, her nose filled with the scents of pine and loam, her eyes dazzled by the sunlight streaming through the leaves swaying above her. She blinked, and the words were there, but the feeling was gone. Rereading the passage, she couldn’t figure out why she’d been caught up with such breathless realism.
It wasn’t that the words were so profound; she was confident they were not. Something had caught her, though, and she closed her eyes to imagine the forest again as if it were a memory, distant, faded, perhaps not even her memory. A memory of something she’d seen in a movie, perhaps, or a memory of a dream she’d had as a child.
Something about it troubled her, and she
meant to come back to it. Tonight, though, she had other homework, so she pushed the book aside.
Dandra’s Books was an unassuming name for the best bookstore in all of the North Quadrant. Dandra was a petite, gray-haired lady with a warm smile. She also had the best map collection, everything from ancient history, both originals and reproductions, to modern maps of cities both near and far, topographical maps, water currents, and everything else. She carried the new releases and electronic holdings that were most in demand, but what made the store unique was the extensive and ever-changing selection of used and antique books. If it could be found, Dandra could find it. Aria suspected she maintained an unassuming storefront because she didn’t want demand to increase; business was sufficient to pay the bills and she refused to hire help.
Dandra also made tolerable coffee, an important consideration for a graduate student. Aria had spent hours studying there as an undergraduate; it had the same air of productive intellectualism as the university library but without the distraction of other groups of students having more fun than she was. She’d found it on a long, meandering walk while avoiding some homework. Something about the place made concentrating easier.
Except when it came to her thesis. Aria told herself that she was investigating what resources were available before she narrowed her focus. But sometimes, when she stared at the blank pages, she almost admitted to herself the truth, that she was frustrated with her professors, her thesis, and the Empire itself. She didn’t have a good explanation, and she hadn’t told anyone.
Something about this image of the forest felt true in a way that nothing had felt for a very long time. It was evidence. Evidence of what, she wasn’t sure. But definitely evidence.
She finished her homework and packed her bag. She put a bookmark in the memoir and reshelved it, resolving that she would come back later and read it a bit more. It was already late, and she had an early class the next day.
After class, there were errands and homework, more class, and lunch with a boy who’d seemed almost likable until he talked too much about his dysfunctional family and his abiding love for his ex-girlfriend, who lived down the hall in his apartment building.
It was a week before she made it back to Dandra’s.
The book was gone.
Dandra shook her head when Aria asked about it. “I don’t know what book you mean. I’ve never had a book like that.”
Aria stared at her in disbelief. “You saw me read it last week. It was called Memories Kept or something like that. Memory Keeper, maybe. Don’t you remember? I was sitting there.” She pointed.
Dandra gave her a sympathetic look. “You’ve been studying too much, Aria. I’m sorry. I don’t have that book. I don’t think I ever did.”
Aria huffed in frustration and bought a cup of coffee. She put too much sugar and cream in it and sat by the window at the front. She stared at the people as they came in, wondering if her anger would burn a hole in the back of someone’s coat. It didn’t, but the mental picture amused her.
Not much else did. The thesis was going nowhere, and the only thing that kept her interest was a line of questions that had no answers and a book that didn’t exist.
Was the degree worth anything anyway? She’d studied history because she enjoyed stories and wanted to learn about the past. But the classes had consisted almost entirely of monologs by the professors about the strength of the Empire and how much better things were now after the Revolution. Her papers had alternated between parroting the professors’ words, and uneasy forays into the old times. The research was hard and getting harder.
The paper she’d written on the Revolution, on how John Sanderhill had united the bickering political factions, had earned an F. Dr. Corten had written, “Your implication that Sanderhill ordered the assassination of Gerard Neeson is patently false and betrays an utter lack of understanding of the morality of the Revolution. I am unable to grade this paper higher than an F in light of such suspect scholarship and patriotism.” Yet Aria had cited her source clearly and had been careful not to take a side on the issue, choosing merely to note that it was one possible explanation for Neeson’s disappearance at the height of the conflict. Not even the most likely.
For a history department, her professors were remarkably uninterested in exploring the past. She scowled at her coffee as it got colder. What was the point of history, if you couldn’t learn from it? The people in history weren’t perfect any more than people now were. But surely, as scholars, they should be able to admit that imperfect people and imperfect decisions could yield lessons and wisdom.
It wasn’t as if it was ancient history either. The Revolution had begun less than fifteen years ago. One would think information would be available. Memories should be clear.
But they weren’t.
The man entered Dandra’s near dusk. He wore no jacket against the winter cold, only a threadbare short-sleeved black shirt. His trousers were dark and equally worn, the cuffs skimming bare ankles. His feet were bare too, and that caught her attention.
He spoke in a low voice, but she was curious, so she listened hard and heard most of what he said. “I need the maps, Dandra.”
“You know I don’t have those.”
“I’ll pay.”
“I don’t have them.” Dandra took a step back as he leaned forward with his hands resting on the desk. “I told you before, I can’t get them. I still can’t.”
“I was told you could, on good authority.” His voice stayed very quiet, but even Aria could hear the cold anger. “Should I tell Petro he was wrong about you?”
“Are you threatening me?” Dandra’s eyes widened, but Aria couldn’t tell if it was in fear or in anger.
“I’m asking if Petro was wrong.”
“Whatever you were promised was wrong. I couldn’t get them.” Dandra clasped her hands together and drew back, her shoulders against the wall, and Aria realized she was terrified. Of the man in the black shirt, or of Petro, or possibly both.
Aria glanced around as she rose and stepped to the counter. Everyone else seemed to be pretending that absolutely nothing was going on. It was up to her to help. “Excuse me? Can I help you find something?” She smiled brightly at him.
He glanced back and she had the momentary impression he was startled at the interruption. He stared at her for a split second with cold blue eyes, then looked back at Dandra. Without another word, he brushed past Aria and out the door and disappeared into the darkness.
Dandra looked at her with wide eyes. “That wasn’t wise, but thank you.”
“Who is he?”
Dandra shook her head. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. Go home, child. It’s late.”
“Are you in trouble?”
Dandra shook her head wordlessly and glanced at a note she held crumpled in her hand. Was she holding that earlier? I don’t think so. The contents seemed to disturb her even more and she announced in a slightly unsteady voice that the store would be closing early for the evening.
Aria pulled on her gloves and shoved her notebook back in her pack. Dandra shooed out the few remaining customers and locked the door with a sigh of relief.
Aria looked around, but the man in the black shirt was long gone.
“You want a ride home?” Dandra asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk. It’s not far.” She hesitated. “Are you okay, Dandra?”
Dandra’s smile and nod were so forced it was obvious even in the reflected lamplight. “Goodnight.”
Aria wandered down the block and around the corner, holding her now-cold cup of coffee. If she went home, she’d have to work on her thesis. If she stayed out, she could tell herself she was planning. She followed the sidewalk and the lighted windows toward the river. She’d walk to the bridge and turn around; she couldn’t justify more procrastination.
The cozy shops didn’t hold her attention, though the light and bustle kept the walk from feeling too morose. She took a last swig of coffee a
nd tossed the cup in a trashcan, then stuffed her hands in her pockets. The wind whipped around the corners of the concrete buildings, and she pulled her hat tighter over her brown curls. The lighted shops behind her, she headed into the edge of the shipping district. Her friend Amara would tell her to be more cautious, but Aria had never been afraid of lonely walks. Just stay alert, she told herself.
One of the ubiquitous posters flapped in the wind, then detached from the light pole and fluttered down the street, finally stopping when it hit a puddle of icy water. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said. See it, say it! Report suspicious activity to the Imperial Police Force. And underneath that admonition: Enemies hide in plain sight.
She’d never seen any enemies of the state. The warnings were everywhere, but even the Revolution itself had been seamless, with barely a whimper of protest from the old government. Everyone knew things were better now.
She approached the bridge at an angle, almost ready to turn around. The water was a black void between the lights behind her and the distant streetlights of the bustling harbor on the other side. Now and again a faint reflection would wink at her, a bright spot in the sea of darkness.
A movement caught her eye.
Later, when she thought about it, she was surprised she’d seen him at all. He sat on one of the steel girders underneath the bridge, some forty feet above the water. He was doing something with his hands, perhaps writing, but she couldn’t see clearly. One leg swung beneath him, relaxed. He was still in shirtsleeves and barefoot.
It was cold enough for snow, and she stared at him, wondering if he was crazy. Contemplating suicide? Trying to catch pneumonia? Even in her sweater with a thick coat over it, she shivered in the icy wind.
Perhaps he needed to see a mental therapist. As she finished the thought, he swung his leg back onto the girder. He rose with easy grace and ran along the slick metal to leap fifteen feet to the ground. He jogged up the slope toward her but turned while he was still some distance away, and jogged another two blocks before entering into a dark building, perhaps an abandoned apartment or condominium tower.
