by Nazri Noor
“I’ve got some questions that need answering, Belphegor,” I snarled. Forget the etiquette of entities, all the supernatural niceties.
He rolled his eyes and shrugged, ever the impertinent teenager. “Get off my case, man, I just got here.”
“I’m not so sure about that anymore,” I said, my fists bunched up tight. Nearby I could feel Florian staring holes into the side of my head, warning me against being too forthright, too frank. “How do you always know where to find me?”
Belphegor scoffed, digging into his pockets for something – probably his phone, the ultimate sign of his dismissal, how he loved to suggest that he was so bored, so above it all. And yet there he was, trailing after us like a puppy, hounding my every move. I waited for him to pull his phone out. At the sight of the bluish glow of its screen, I moved in and slapped it out of his hand. It landed with a wet splat in the grass. Florian gasped. I held my ground, lifting my chin higher, puffing my chest out, like a cockerel that doesn’t know it’s headed to the chopping block.
“You’re at the scene of every demon attack. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. You’ve been sending these assholes to test us.”
Belphegor calmly stepped over to his phone to retrieve it, wiping the dew and grass away from its screen before depositing it back in his pocket. Then he brushed the fringe of hair away from the center of his brow. I staggered back at the sight of the third eye lingering there, embedded in his forehead. All three of his eyes turned crimson. I backed away some more, leaves rustling as I collided with the hedge maze.
“Nephilim,” he said, the word rolling on his tongue like a sour piece of fruit. Belphegor’s voice was different, too – deeper, more menacing. “Have you considered the possibility that I am appearing in response to these attacks? I am as puzzled as you are. I would advise you to tone down your baseless accusations. Demon princes we may be, but even demons have their honor.”
I wasn’t going to argue the point with him, not when his eyes were lighting up like a really angry traffic stop. I put up my hands in placation and nodded my assent in silence. The crimson faded from Belphegor’s eyes.
“Awesome. Then I guess we keep up what we’re all doing and try to figure this out.” The prince threw me a mischievous grin, a sliver of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Mason. I’m very pleased with the progress you’ve made with Florian here. It looks like you’re finally waking up.” Belphegor leaned towards Florian, giving him the same simpering smile. “Aren’t you, my dryad friend?”
“Right,” Florian said, his body perfectly still, the equal stillness of his breathing betraying his discomfort. “I’m awake.”
“Excellent,” Belphegor said. “Then we’re all getting what we want.” He winked at me with his third eye, such an inhuman sight that it sent revulsion wriggling down my spine. “Except you, apparently, Mason. You really should reconsider the errand for that bruja. Beatrice Rex’s services are pretty damn expensive, but it must be better than running from demons for the rest of your life.”
I gaped at him, hating that he somehow knew about every single one of my movements, but too stunned to answer.
“Oh, and maybe spring for enchanted boxers,” he said, winking again. “When it comes to magical underwear, you’ll want to go for maximum comfort.”
With that, Belphegor burst into a plume of crimson flame, then vanished. Florian stared at the smoking spot on the ground, then turned to me.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“Let’s get out of here first,” I said. I pulled my jacket’s hood over my head as the sound of popping started to fill the air, wincing at the pain of the gash the demon had cut into my chest. “We’ve got company.”
We disappeared into the foliage and headed straight for the gates as more noises popped behind us, as Lorica employees and enforcers teleported into the Nicola Arboretum. I bit on the inside of my cheek in my anger, tasting blood. Everywhere I turned, someone was following me. It didn’t matter if I left Valero, that much I knew. The Lorica’s shadow fell across the entire country. And the demon princes, the angels, the entities? They could see everywhere.
My wound stung again, and I stumbled as I struggled to catch up with Florian, hating myself for getting too gung-ho, for not seeing the demon’s claws coming. And I hated to admit it, but Belphegor was right, for once. I needed a way to hide from the world, to disappear into the cracks of the arcane underground whenever I wanted.
I needed to kill two witches.
16
I would have loved to have spent the rest of the night talking, but as it stood, I really only had the energy to give Florian an abbreviated version of everything that had happened between meeting Beatrice Rex, Quilliam J. Abernathy, and Leonora. Plus calling on the Vestments had worn me out. Three times in the same day, no less. I’d never abused the Vestments quite so badly.
The same counted for Florian. He was exhausted by the time we made it back to our apartment, the sudden resurgence of his nature magic taking its toll on his body. I told him I understood, and I told him not to bother when he offered to help with my cut.
It was just a shallow wound, I said, nothing a little cleaning and some basic medical attention couldn’t help. I suspected that the angelic half of me contributed a little to my constitution. Getting sick had never been a thing for me, even as a kid, and while I never questioned why cuts and scrapes I earned on the playground healed over so quickly, now I understood why.
Florian did make me take off my shirt, though, enough so he could study the wound. It was, truthfully, worse than I thought, but I didn’t let on that I knew that. He came to the same conclusion himself, anyway.
“I don’t like the looks of that,” he said. “I don’t think that demon left any poison in you, though.”
My eyes went huge. “Wait. Is that a thing? Do demons excrete poison? I know they use it with weapons sometimes, but from their claws?”
He shrugged. “Who the hell knows? I mean, they’re demons. If they don’t produce it, they can always dip their claws in it, cut you open, and bam! You’re infected.” He peered closer, then sniffed at my wound. I flinched, giving him an odd look, but hey, the guy was hundreds of years older than me. I would have to put just a little bit of trust in his abilities.
It didn’t take very long. Florian spent some time poking at the dead plants and dried soil of the planter hanging out of our windowsill. I don’t know how the hell he did it, but when he came back, he had something green and completely alive in his hands, a thick green wedge of something shaped like a spike.
“Whoa,” I said, scuttling away, tripping over our coffee table. “What is that stuff?” Its edges were serrated, like a knife.
“Calm down,” he said, frowning. “Can’t believe you’re getting scared over a little aloe vera.”
“I’m not scared,” I spat, frowning back, but still regarding the thing with some suspicion. It was a leaf, wasn’t it? It kind of reminded me of a piece of cactus. Its wider end was glistening and wet.
Florian squeezed, producing a squirt of translucent gel out of its base. Then he lifted the dollop of something translucent to his mouth, muttering things I couldn’t understand. The gel sparkled as he chanted. I tried to be a big boy when Florian closed in to apply the stuff, tried not to wince and flinch when he smeared it across my chest. It was cold, and I hissed at the sudden sensation of it, but I was sighing in relief soon enough.
The pain of my wound was disappearing. I looked down and gasped. That wasn’t the only thing disappearing. The cut’s edges were closing in on each other, albeit very slowly. If this was what dryads could do, then hot damn, I was more than happy to let one live on my couch forever and ever. Color me paranoid, but I just knew it wasn’t going to be the last time I would need some magical not-a-cactus ointment to help treat my wounds.
I slept peacefully for the next several hours, and, I presumed, so did Florian. I wasn’t sure if I was just extremely tuckered
out, or if Florian had put something in that ointment along with the healing spell, but I woke up completely refreshed. I stretched out my arms, expanding my chest and studying myself in the mirror, and my jaw dropped. The wound was gone entirely, leaving just a faint white line in its place.
“That should disappear in time,” Florian said. I hadn’t realized that he was standing at the doorway, much less that he was awake. And he had two cups of coffee in his hands, too. I liked this new version of him, being all proactive and stuff. Being extra proactive, mind you, because the next thing he said as I sipped my black instant coffee came as a total surprise.
“Get dressed. We need to figure out who the hell keeps attacking you. Us. It’s us now, isn’t it? This is pretty cool.” I hadn’t answered – I was still slurping on my horrible coffee – but Florian looked taller that morning, happier, more alert. I didn’t know what all this awakening stuff was about, but it was doing him a damn world of good. And that good was spilling over onto my side of the apartment, so no complaints there.
I showered and dressed quickly because Florian was in a huge goddamn hurry to get to Heinsite Park. That was the second largest plot of nature in Valero, and without really knowing what he had planned, I at least had a hunch that Florian was going to exercise more of his dryad nature magic to help divine the source of our constant demon attacks.
So we hoofed it, because I was a good friend, damn it, and I wasn’t about to let Florian’s sudden burst of momentum and self-confidence go to waste. He kicked off his shoes as soon as we entered the park grounds, strutting straight for the farthest, emptiest picnic table. I was going to warn him about possible broken glass and hypodermic needles lurking in the grass, then remembered the natural toughness of his skin and decided against it. I just trailed after him, hiding my face behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, scanning the park for signs of a potential breakfast.
There was a truck parked at Heinsite’s far end, in fact. Florian shooed me off impatiently when I asked if he wanted a breakfast burrito. He was that excited about getting to work. Hell, I was pretty damn excited, too. If it meant finally getting all of these supernatural interruptions off of my back, then I was fine with letting him hang out at Heinsite all day.
I did buy a second burrito, though. Just in case he got hungry. So, coffee in hand, burrito in the other, and Florian’s burrito tucked delicately into one of my jacket pockets, I waddled back to our picnic table to find him sitting out in the grass, his shirt shucked and left on the ground, his feet planted firmly in the earth, his face raised to the sky. To anyone else, he was just some dude meditating in the park, basking in the warmth of the sun. But oh. Oh, wow. Did dryads get their magic through photosynthesis? I’d have to ask Florian later.
Much later, apparently, because it turned out that I had another minor distraction to deal with. There, of all people, sitting on the edge of our picnic table and buffing his nails with a nail file, was Raziel, the angel of mysteries.
17
Raziel kept on buffing and fiddling with his fingernails as I approached, not even bothering to look up, a languid smile on his lips.
“You got me breakfast?” he sang. “How very sweet of you, Mason.”
“Shush,” I grumbled, sliding into the picnic bench, carefully setting down my precious coffee. “The burrito’s for Florian. Go get your own.” I nudged my sunglasses up my nose, squinting as I looked Raziel in the face. “Besides, as if you haven’t already heard, money’s tight for us.” I looked down at my burrito, moping and frowning at it, but feeling guilty all the same. “But if you want a bite of mine, it’s okay.”
Raziel’s laughter was musical, like a summer breeze drifting through wind chimes on the porch of a house with white picket fences, or something charming and annoying like that.
“I was only joking,” he said, favoring me with another smile. “But it is very kind of you to offer.” He extended one hand, sighing as a small pile of tinkling gold coins appeared in his palm. “If only we could make use of my talents here.”
I licked my lips as I stared at the treasure in his hand, already agreeing on the inside. “Really is a shame. That’s just pyrite, isn’t it? Fool’s gold. It’ll just disintegrate the moment it leaves your body.”
Raziel closed his fist, and the coins disappeared in a puff of dust. “Quite right. If only it were that simple.” He nodded in Florian’s direction. “It does seem as though your friend is doing better, however.”
I shrugged. “We’re working on it,” I said, remembering Florian’s burrito and setting it on the picnic table next to mine. “So, you were all smiles when you saw me coming. What’re you so happy about, anyway?”
With an ecstatic, exaggerated grin on his face, Raziel exhaled dramatically, dropping the nail file. It disappeared in a cloud of gold glitter. He planted his hands on his thighs, then beamed at me. “I am happy, Mason Albrecht, because I am seeing so much progress. With you, and with your friend. You summoned the Vestments thrice yesterday, did you not?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, even though he couldn’t see them through my shades. “How could you possibly know that?”
He placed a finger across his lips, still smiling. “I’ve been quietly keeping track of what goes in and out of the armories. You know, upstairs. Don’t worry, it’s our little secret.”
Raziel held out one hand, palm upwards. A pocket watch appeared there, glinting in the sunlight. I whipped my head around, checking for nearby normals who might have seen Raziel’s little act of prestidigitation.
“Will you keep it in your pants?” I hissed. “It’s hard enough hiding in plain sight without you giving everyone a show.”
He cleared his throat, his lips curling into the tiniest shadow of a frown. “I am merely demonstrating, Mason, the fact that I am capable of materializing objects as well. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
My eyes flitted from the pocket watch up to his face. “Well, yes. Except you’re producing all sorts of weird stuff. Nail files, fountain pens. That fob watch.”
Raziel closed his fingers, and the watch disappeared in another puff of gold. “Indeed, though my gifts differ somewhat. Our talents all differ, Mason. That’s what makes existence so curious, so interesting.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I would have imagined that you’d be horrified by the thought of diversity. Isn’t everything supposed to be in order up there? Everything is uniform. Everything in its place.”
He waved an impatient hand. “Stereotypes. Bad publicity, that’s all it is. The gifts of the divine are as varied as those you might find in, say, human mages, as an example. Some are talented with controlling fire. Others might be able to bend the weather to their will. And your abilities are similarly unique. But you must keep in mind, Mason, that your gift is not simply limited to fetching objects from the armories upstairs.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the whole point of the Vestments? Snatching stuff I can borrow for a minute?”
“Perhaps,” Raziel said. “But there is more to it than that. As different as our talents are, very few of us celestials have anything quite resembling your power. You can borrow things from out of heaven, well and good. But what if you could make something out of nothing?”
I took a sip of my coffee, the inside of my head already building a slight ache over Raziel’s love for the obtuse. Angel of mysteries, right? “So what’s your point, exactly? I don’t think I understand.”
Raziel twisted around to fully face me, planting his hands on the table, almost smushing my burrito in the process.
“Remember your lineage, Mason. Your father was king of the fallen, of the Grigori. He had a greater touch of the divine, a predilection for rebellion, and free will, the desire to forge his own way. For that was how he fell, for choosing to love mankind. And those traits, and those faults, and his very blood, all of that was passed on to you, the day your father perished. Your greatest gift is your ability to walk your own path. And, should you venture to explore it, you may ye
t discover your latent knack for crafting and creating objects from out of the ethers. To truly make something out of nothing.”
I froze in my seat, the tempting smell of my burrito drifting away with the wind, the traces of bitter, burnt coffee in my mouth fading as a new excitement built in my body and pumped through my blood.
When I spoke, my words came so softly. “What exactly are you getting at, Raziel?”
“Creatio ex nihilo. To create something out of nothing. Only time will tell, but I believe that this can be the fullest extent of your gift, your very zenith.” Raziel folded his fingers together, leaning so close that his breath on my cheek made me shudder. “Mason Albrecht, princeling, son of Samyaza. You could make anything. What will you make of yourself?”
18
I chuckled uncertainly, watching Raziel’s face for signs of change. Was he being serious? The implications were massive. But more importantly, he’d said that word, the same one that Belphegor used. Princeling.
I’d never really thought of myself in that capacity. Sure, I knew who my father was, and the status he commanded among the fallen. But what did that entail? Was it just a title, or did it come with responsibilities? My fingernails dug into the wood of the picnic table, searching for splinters. Was I actual royalty?
My teeth worried at my bottom lip as I stared down at my unopened burrito. Huh. If I was royalty, then where the hell was all of my noble wealth? I frowned at Raziel.
“So where’s this kingly ransom, then? Where’s my inheritance?”
Raziel rolled his eyes and sighed. “Again with this. I just told you of the immense stores of power you – fine, to be fair, that you might potentially possess. And all you care about is wealth?”
I reached for my burrito, tearing at the foil wrapping. “You just don’t get it, do you? Humans need money to survive. It’s how things work on earth. You don’t need to eat or sleep or shower. All of that costs money.” I took my first bite, savoring the grease and salt of scrambled eggs and hash browns and crumbled sausage, but still throwing Raziel the scowl he deserved.
