Angels on Fire

by Nancy A. Collins

  Lucy gulped and did as she was told, clipping the keychain onto her right side. “Gotcha. No peeking.”

  “Now, stick out your tongue.”

  Lucy did so, warily eyeing the tiny vial. “Whad id dat tuff?” she asked. It was hard to talk with your tongue sticking out and not sound like an utter idiot.

  “Ambrosia. It is what mortals must drink if they would commune with the gods,” he said, lightly daubing the tip of her tongue with it.

  She blinked in surprise as the taste of honey-sweet wine flooded her mouth. Her ears were already beginning to ring and her eyes refusing to focus. “Wow,” she gasped. “What a rush!”

  Ezrael swiftly grabbed her elbow and steered her to the magic circle, carefully avoiding smudging the runes and symbols running along its outer rim. As she lay down on the bare wooden floor of her living room, her head pointed towards the Eastern Star and her limbs spread-eagled, exposed to and embracing the universe, she was reminded of DaVinci’s Ecce Homo.

  Ezrael began to chant, his voice deep and mellifluous, as he poured what was left of the purified spring water into the silver bowl. Lucy wondered what language he was using to recite the spell—or was it a prayer? It didn’t sound like Latin, but then, she’d been raised Methodist. She wouldn’t know Latin from Portuguese. Maybe it was Greek, or even Egyptian. Or perhaps it was s a language unspoken and unknown to any but wingless angels.

  Holding the silver bowl in one hand and the bundle of mistletoe in the other, Ezrael began walking clockwise about the outer rim of the circle, occasionally dipping the mistletoe in the water and waving it in the direction of the compass points.

  Just as Lucy was beginning to think that the old angel had forgotten a necessary ingredient in the ritual’s recipe, her heart stopped in mid-beat and her consciousness shot out of her body as if fired from a cannon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy had a fleeting impression of her naked, white-coated body laid out on the floor and the top of Ezrael’s head as she passed through the ceiling, to emerge through the spot on the roof where she’d first stumbled across Joth. She was moving faster than any speed she had experienced before, going higher and higher with every second, Manhattan’s myriad lights dwindling to glittering pinpricks in less time than it took to bat an eye.

  One moment she was looking at the curve of the world as it spun silently on its axis, the next she was shooting into the cold, airless vacuum of space, where the stars and planets glowed and glittered fiercely, their glory no longer masked by Earth’s life-giving envelope of oxygen and moisture.

  It was all happening so fast, the distances so vast, and the speed so fantastic, it was impossible for her to feel any fear over having cast aside her mortal form. But as she passed the great, orange mass of Jupiter, and her trajectory was still showing no signs of slowing, she grew anxious. It was like she was once more a child, pulled heavenward by the church bell, only now there was no kindly Brother Peacock to step in and bring her back to earth.

  Just as that thought flickered through her mind, she reached her destination. There was no slowing, gradual or otherwise. One second she was traveling, the next she had arrived.

  It was hard to describe exactly where she was. It was easier to describe where she wasn’t. And she certainly wasn’t in New York City. Nor, from what she could see, was she in the Heaven of song and story.

  There were no Pearly Gates, no stately mansions carved of flawless marble and held aloft by big fluffy clouds. Nor were there streets of gold or clusters of white-robed souls outfitted in halos and little harps wandering about. As far as she could tell, she was standing on a ledge-like outcropping roughly thirty feet wide, facing a vast emptiness, utterly devoid of light, which she assumed to be the Void she’d heard Joth and Ezrael mention. The shelf-like overhang appeared to stretch to either side and extend, literally, into eternity. Even though she was a good ten feet from the edge, Lucy took a step backward before turning to stare up at the Clockwork.

  The thing that gave birth to the cosmos was so huge she could not hope to take it all in. No matter how hard she stared at it, it was impossible to see everything. She felt like an ant trying to get a clear view of a blue whale.

  In some places the Clockwork was constructed of glass, in others it was composed of liquid that maintained a three-dimensional form. Some parts of the Clockwork sported fur, while another had scales, and still other portions sprouted petals and thorns. Steam leaked forth from a hundred thousand different geysers, blow-holes, anuses, nostrils and valves. There were eyes scattered here and there, along the outer face, each the size of a house, the pupils fixed like those of a sleeper locked deep in REM dreams. The gargantuan eyeballs jerking in their sockets made a sound like bowling balls rolled back and forth on a polished wood floor as they tracked the movements of countless universes.

  Every so often the surface of the Clockwork shuddered, like the flanks of a winded horse ridding itself of biting flies. Tentacles, feelers, fingers, claws, and antennae grew in random clumps, like clusters of seaweed, and waved and wrestled with one another in the still air, giving the illusion of a wind blowing.

  Indeed, so massive and strange was the grandeur of the Clockwork ,Lucy did not spot the angels until the sparkling of their jeweled wings caught her eye. They were wheeling high above her, like gulls that nest in seaward cliffs, darting in and out of the nooks and crannies of the Clockwork as they went about their appointed tasks. She could make out just enough detail to recognize them as elohim like Joth, although of far greater variety than she had expected. They appeared to be a mix of African, Caucasian, Asian, Meso-American—she even spotted some with skins the color of pistachios or robins’ eggs. Her heart raced as she caught a glimpse of fiery wings amidst the more prosaic plumage, but her excitement passed as she saw that they belonged to a slightly larger angel than the others—no doubt one of the Greater Elohim Ezrael had mentioned to her earlier.

  Now that she was on the seraph’s turf, Lucy wasn’t exactly sure how she was supposed to go about locating Nisroc. The Clockwork was huge beyond comprehension and it didn’t seem to have any “you are here” signposts—at least none she recognized as such. She decided her best bet was to attract the attention of the angels circling overhead and get them to take her to their leader, so to speak.

  As she continued to look for a way to approach the flock of elohim, she came upon a section of the Clockwork fashioned of black volcanic glass— and froze in mid-step as she caught sight of her reflection. She thought Ezrael was being poetic when he had called her Joth’s champion, but now she understood he had meant it literally. She looked like a hero from ancient myth, outfitted with the borrowed weaponry of patron gods.

  While she might be stark naked and covered in rice paste on Earth, on this plane of existence she was dressed head to toe in a translucent armor that resembled a carapace, and that possessed a milky, opalescent quality, like a combination of mother-of-pearl and white jade. Her head was protected by an elongated corkscrew helmet that looked like an ornate cross between a Balinese dancer’s head-dress, a butterfly chrysalis, and an exotic sea-shell. The strange armor hugged her body so tightly her breasts resembled spike-teated cones. As she glanced down, she saw that the humble paintbrush Ezrael had given her was now transformed into a scimitar with a blade of solid diamond.

  “Identify yourself, deathling!”

  Lucy was startled by a high-pitched voice that seemed to issue from somewhere three feet above her head. She glanced up and saw what looked to be a fetus held aloft by furiously beating wings the size of a man’s hand. With a start, it suddenly occurred to Lucy that what she was looking at was a cherub. The thing bore little resemblance to the pudgy winged infants cavorting through Renaissance and Pre-Raphaelite canvasses. If anything, it more closely resembled one of Bosch’s nightmares. Although the initial impression was that of an infant, there was nothing at all cute and cuddly about the thing bobbing above her like a demented helium balloon.

  The t
hing’s head was huge, easily dwarfing its wizened body, which dangled beneath its chin like the wattle of a turkey. Its forehead bulged precipitously, and Lucy saw veins pulsing and twisting like worms under its paper-thin skin. The eyes were as large and goggled as those of an ornamental goldfish, and it possessed a tiny slit for a mouth and an even tinier nose. Its matchstick limbs were folded in on themselves, as useless as the vestigial forearms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  “Identity yourself! State your purpose!” shrilled the cherub. It moved closer, generating an electric-blue energy field that crackled and buzzed like a back patio bug-zapper.

  “I-I’m Lucille Bender,” she said, taking an involuntary step backwards. “I’m looking for Nisroc—”

  The cherub halted its approach, blinking its bulbous eyes with its bottom lids—an unexpectedly reptilian action that did little to calm her nerves. It was all Lucy could do to stifle the desire to swat the creature with the flat of her sword.

  “If you could tell me where I might be able to find him—it’s important— I, uh, realize I don’t have an appointment...”

  The cherub’s lipless mouth dropped open, revealing toothless gums the color of chewed bubblegum, and a weird, piercing wail emerged from its deceptively tiny form. Lucy gritted her teeth as the alarm call vibrated her inner ear. The sound reminded her of the tornado sirens atop the old Brakeman’s Union Hall in Seven Devils.

  The elohim riding the high currents swooped down, attracted by the cherub’s shriek. One with skin the color of mocha coffee landed on a nearby outcropping, tilting its head to one side as it peered down at Lucy with crystal-clear eyes. Despite the difference in coloration, Lucy found the angel’s similarity to Joth startling. Even the body language was identical.

  “Who summons me?”

  Lucy recognized Nisroc’s surly growl even before she saw the seraph. Nisroc and Preil looked pretty much the same in their natural habitat as they had on Earth: creepy and awe-inspiring. She remembered all too well her last interaction with the Celestials, but it was too late to turn back now. She squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

  “I did.”

  Although it lacked eyelids, Preil’s unflinching gaze seemed to narrow. “You!” The ophan didn’t seem very pleased. “The deathling female! How is it you are here?”

  “I sense Ezrael’s hand in this,” Nisroc growled, smoothing its mane in what Lucy now recognized was a nervous gesture. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, deathling?”

  “I-It’s about Joth.”

  “Joth—?” Nisroc frowned for a moment then something resembling recognition flickered across the seraph’s leonine features. “Ah. Yes. The sojourner. What of the elohim?”

  “You have to put him to the Final Question immediately! It’s almost too late—”

  “If the elohim is to Fall, the Fall is inevitable,” Preil snapped.

  “No!”

  “Preil has spoken truly,” Nisroc said, nodding in agreement. “If the elohim Falls before the Final Question can be asked, then that is its destiny. The timetable is set. There can be no deviation. Your request is denied, Lucille Bender.”

  “But—!”

  “Go from this place, deathling!” Preil’s beak clicked like the castanets of a flamenco dancer. “You are not wanted here!”

  Lucy felt her heart sink. This was madness. How the hell was she going to make an angel—one of the freaking seraphim, for crying out loud!—do what she wanted? Suddenly Ez’s voice was in her ear. It was so loud and clear it was as if the muse were standing right beside her.

  Don’t let them bully you! You’re as powerful as they are, but in a different fashion! You’ve got to pit your strengths against theirs! You are Joth’s champion, woman—now fight for him, damn it!

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily!” Lucy cried, grabbing Nisroc in a hammerlock.

  The seraph’s features twisted into something that would have been comical if its eyes hadn’t been glowing bright orange. “Unhand me, deathling!”

  “Not until you agree to change your schedule!”

  “Preil!” Nisroc yowled in distress. “Get her off me!”

  The ophan rushed forward, tentacles at the ready, only to have Lucy bring her crystalline sword up, reflecting the ophan’s baleful gaze back onto itself. A high-pitched squeal that sounded like electric guitar feedback issued from Preil’s beak as the giant eyeball spun like a pinwheel, its optic nerve/ tentacles twitching and writhing like a nest of snakes.

  “Don’t make me get rough, Nisroc!” Lucy warned the struggling seraph. “I’m not afraid of you! And I’m not going to back down! You’re not dealing with some worker-drone, damn it! I am here by my own volition! And I refuse to go! That is the power of my will!”

  Upon recovering its equilibrium, Preil righted itself, snapping its tentacles like a cat-o’-nine-tails across Lucy’s back. Although the force of the blows was enough to make her stagger, the armor managed to absorb the worst of it. Nisroc’s blazing wings unfurled like the flaps of a burning circus tent, obscuring her vision with fire. Lucy flinched, expecting to have her face bubble and sear, but to her surprise the flames were without heat. With a single beat of its fiery pinions, Nisroc shot into the air, Lucy suspended from the seraph’s underbelly like a dangling watch fob.

  Ezrael’s voice was again in her ear. Be careful! Any damage that is done to your avatar can result in permanent injury to your real body! Nisroc might not mean to destroy—but that doesn’t mean it can’t accidentally kill you!

  “Great,” she muttered under her breath as the seraph went into a loop-de-loop trying to dislodge her. “Now you tell me!”

  Lucy swung herself onto the seraph’s back. Wrapping her legs about its waist as tightly as possibly, she freed her blade and, gripping it with both hands, sheared off one of the angel’s wings. Nisroc gave a cry that was half lion’s roar and half eagle’s scream as it plummeted like a damaged kite. They struck the narrow ledge along the Clockwork hard, bounced, then hit again, sliding within inches of the yawning Void. Although their landing was enough to bloody her nose, Lucy still maintained her grip on the crippled seraph, pinning it securely beneath her.

  “Get off me!” roared Nisroc as its brazen claws scraped ineffectively against Lucy’s carapace, throwing off sparks.

  “Not until you agree to change the timetable for the Final Question!”

  “There can be no change—!”

  “Wrong answer!” Lucy said, tightening her grip on Nisroc, levering the seraph’s head back towards its spine. She wasn’t certain if it was possible to kill a Celestial in such a manner, but she was pretty sure she could inconvenience it.

  Nisroc roared and the Fire of Righteousness enveloped her. Even with her special charms and wards of protection, the pain was excruciating. Her first instinct was simply to let go of the seraph and curl into a ball like a hedgehog, but she knew couldn’t give in. If she surrendered now, then Joth was lost forever. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Joth needed her. She was the only one in the whole world—in the whole damn universe!—who could help him! She could not let go—she would not let go. She refused to fail Joth as she had failed her mother.

  The seraph screamed like a scalded cat as the astral flames enveloping Lucy flickered and died. She straddled the exhausted seraph’s chest, clutching Nisroc’s fiery mane in one hand and holding her sword in the other. She glanced up and saw that the space directly above them was crowded with gaping cherubim, seraphim, ophanim and elohim. At first she thought the Host had rallied to their fellow’s aid, but none bothered to lift a finger, or, in the ophan’ case, twitch a tentacle. She was eerily reminded of Joth’s voyeuristic complacency when Nevin slapped her around.

  Without any warning, the gathered cherubim began to wail in unison, causing the Host to disperse in a flurry of wings and flapping tentacles, leaving Lucy, Nisroc and Preil alone on the ledge. Baffled, she looked around to see what might have precipitated such a sudden exodus and saw that there was n
ow a light in the Void.

  At first it looked like a single match-head burning in the darkness, then it began to grow. Whatever it was, it was on fire and traveling fast. Was it a comet? A falling star? Within seconds the horizon became a solid wall of fire. And then the flames parted down the middle like a curtain being opened on a proscenium stage.

  The Archon stood revealed, its form roughly humanoid, although lacking features or distinct physical characteristic, its form composed of roiling clouds of gas and cosmic dust. The featureless head angled downward, twin suns burning in the place where eyes should be as it stared down at the combatants before it. As the Archon reached down with a hand the size of an asteroid, Lucy suddenly received a vision of herself as detritus jamming the gears of a mechanism. The Archon meant to pluck this offending piece of alien matter free and flick it over its shoulder and into the Void, where it could do no more harm.

  The Archon’s hand filled her vision. There were galaxies spinning in its palm, suns going nova under its finger nails. She could feel herself dwindling like a wet sugar cube before its glory. Her fingers groped blindly for the pouch at her waist. Something told her that this was the ‘extreme circumstances’ Ezrael told her to wait until before using the charm he had given her. She could feel the heat radiating from the pouch hanging from her belt as her fingers closed over it, even though her hand was sheathed in translucent armor.

  Remembering Ezrael’s warning not to look at the charm, she tried to lift her arm to shield her eyes, but only to find she could barely move it. The Archon had fixed her to the spot. She felt like an armadillo tranced by the headlights of an oncoming tractor- trailer. But then she thought of Joth, and somehow she was able to find the strength to avert her gaze in time.