by S. L. Duncan
Light. Darkness. Those things he knew. Those things were real. He’d seen them, felt them, fought them. Nothing else really mattered.
He kicked off the wet sheets and sat on the edge of the plush mattress, his feet dangling off. Which was fine. The marble floor would be freezing, a perpetual ice sheet no matter what time of day. Across the dark room, an ornate, golden mirror reflected his image. Hardly anything remained of the person he had been only weeks ago—before what happened in New York City set him on this journey.
Images forced their way into his mind. A body. An upside down cross. Fire.
Gabe shook them from his thoughts and studied his face in the mirror. He wondered if anyone else could see the shameful resentment he held for being born an archangel. A gift, an honor, a blessing, everyone said.
A curse, he thought.
He took a sip of water from the glass on the table beside his bed. The clock by the lamp read 3:16 a.m. He put his glass down and moved to the opposite side of the gigantic mattress, where the sheets weren’t damp. Getting comfortable, he closed his eyes only to see again the images that would probably haunt him forever.
Bodies littered the streets of Axum. A man transformed into some kind of demonic dragon thing. And now there was this lingering uncertainty, this fear that they could even stop what the demon Septis promised was coming.
The End of Days.
Gabe pulled his knees to his chest and grabbed them, balling himself up as tightly as possible. He strained, squinting his eyes shut.
I want to go home. He realized he was thinking of his small dorm room at Durham University. Not New York. Not any one of the dozens of places he’d lived, as he’d followed his father around the United States as he kept up his secret identity, his lie of being a Preacher for Hire.
Gabe didn’t want his old life back. He wanted a new life. Durham, at least for a moment, held the promise of normal.
Somewhere deep inside, somewhere next to the discomposing feeling in the pit of his stomach, he already knew that life was drifting further and further away. It was slight, a sort of growing discomfort with the quiet and peace.
Do not forget your purpose, it seemed to warn.
The room, even with its incredibly high, carved ceiling and the priceless art decorating the walls and the endless marble, had begun to feel like a prison cell. They’d been at the Vatican for a few weeks now, and the most he’d seen of anything were these four walls.
I’ve got to get out of here. He tried to think of something more pleasant. I’m going crazy.
Escape Vatican City, he thought, fantasizing about jumping out of the window and fleeing into Rome. He had to admit, though, it was a funny place to find himself, considering not too long ago he figured the biggest stress at this time in his life would be nothing more than getting rejected by college admission councils.
Gabe rolled over and buried his head in his pillow as he pulled the covers to his face and wished to feel those frustrations once again. His cheeks felt warm, slightly feverish.
Destiny sucks.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabe waited on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on the door in anticipation of the show that was about to begin. Micah, after all, had a certain way of entering a room. A sort of grand gesture of which, Gabe was certain, she was completely unaware. And that’s what made her effortless charm so captivating. So endearing. In fact, the promise of her return was always the best part of her leaving the common area of their Vatican residence.
Once again, he looked at the clock by his bed and twisted the ring on his finger.
Late, he thought. Again.
He caught his reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror with an extravagant white carved-wood frame. It looked old, sort of like his reflection. He didn’t have dark veins creeping up his neck, nor did his skin look like a zombie’s, but he did look tired. He felt tired, too.
Exhausted, in fact. Like the feeling that came on just before a bad cold, blanketing the body in an internal weariness and all- around discomfort. His eyes looked deeper set than they had days ago.
The idea was for them to rest. To recharge after what they’d been through. But he wasn’t feeling better at all.
It wasn’t like the accommodations weren’t comfortable. They were. The rooms and amenities were nice enough—extravagant by any measure—but they just couldn’t stop Axum from haunting his thoughts.
Maybe nothing ever will.
The clock on the wall told of only a few minutes passing from the last time he’d checked.
Hurry up. He wondered what was keeping Micah.
On the coffee table were several books meant to occupy his attention on just such an occasion, when he’d been left alone with nothing to think about Everything Horrible. He’d read two already since they’d arrived in Vatican City. It wasn’t as though there was much else to do while sequestered in the Apostolic Palace. One was a self-help-type book, for people who’d suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome. The stories of war inside were enough to scare him into the disorder, if he didn’t have it already. The books were religious, specifically Catholic of course, but he didn’t expect much else from the Holy See.
Not interested, he thought, looking at them again. Entertainment was like contraband inside the city limits. No TV, no radio, no video games were allowed. Nothing that might actually be useful as a distraction from his own thoughts.
Gabe closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, his lids heavy from another night without sleep. His heart quickened, and then they came—scenes, like a horror movie.
His eyes shot open, quickly finding the dome shining outside the apartment window, but with every blink of his eyes, images and sounds of death and scenes of blood and rubble flashed across his mind.
Micah’s presence was the only thing that kept them from clawing away his sanity.
In the corner of the living room, Gabe heard a distant scream, just as he had in the Ethiopian streets many weeks back. He turned, knowing nothing would be there but the phantom of that day.
A sharp pain dug into the archangel birthmark at the base of his skull, and he wondered if he might be going mad. The Vatican had caught on as well. Said he was showing signs of depression.
Where’s Micah? Gabe wondered, looking again at the door. Resigned that it might be a while, he leaned back into the plush couch, letting its cushions engulf him, his anticipation cooling as he concentrated on slow and steady breathing. Around the room, there were pillows on everything. On his bed. On chairs. On the couch.
The padded room, he thought as he waited. My life in a crazy cell.
Waiting on Micah.
Waiting on them to figure out what to do with us.
His father, Joseph, had been in meeting after meeting with officials and politicians and the Holy See. Upon their arrival, there had been a storm of meetings to introduce the archangels to the powers that be. Event after event with Micah and Gabe and occasionally Afarôt—the three archangels front and center, like trophies brought back from some great adventure. They’d be required to make an appearance and showcase the power they possessed and prove something with the birthmarks on the backs of their heads. Even with such evidence, those in charge were reluctant to depart from their secrets.
Religious red tape.
For weeks, though, there had been nothing but the daily routine of this new, kept life. Only the occasional visit from his father to update them on the quest to pry the Apocalypse of Solomon from the Vatican’s Secret Archives broke the monotony. Finding it had been a bit of an issue, apparently.
It didn’t much matter, Gabe figured. If the Vatican did keep a copy tucked away, the book would be nearly impossible to interpret without Carlyle, the Essene expert and Micah’s guardian, who was betrayed and killed by Yuri, the fourth archangel. Gabe remembered the moment of betray¬al on the shores of the River Wear in the northeast of England.
Gabe had watched Carlyle die. He had disappeared in a beam of energy that had erupted fro
m Yuri’s hand and cut through the forest of Durham. The look in Carlyle’s eyes just before he died was seared into Gabe’s mind.
It was such a conflicted memory to experience again and again. The sadness of losing Carlyle nearly matched by the wonder and horror of knowing that Yuri, like Gabe, was an archangel born human to stop the End of Days. Therefore, anything Yuri was able to do, so then should Gabe.
He felt the tug again at the back of his mind, the dark curiosity of what that would feel like, that raw power. He looked to his hand and realized he’d been twisting the Ring of Solomon on his finger.
Someone at his door knocked twice, and Micah entered, the door swinging open as if it were throwing itself from her path. Her hair flowed behind her, trying to catch up. She did this thing when going into a new room: gathering her hair and throwing it over her shoulder, as though the new scene warranted a fresh look.
Instantly, the residence brightened, and not just because of her flamboyant formal attire, embarrassingly similar to the clownish uniforms of the Swiss Guard, which they were forced to wear outside their apartments. They had made several complaints, but so far, the requirement stood. Before the door shut, Gabe watched her security detail fall into line in the hallway. They looked out of breath, no doubt spent trying to keep up with her energetic pace.
“Well?” he asked.
“Got it, of course.” Micah looked him over. “You okay?”
Gabe still enjoyed the singsong rhythm of her British accent.
“Fine,” he said, dismissing her worried look. “So how? How did you do it?”
Worry faded to a smile. “I promised a porter I’d bless his family.” She unhooked the Gethsemane Sword from her back and began taking off her striped, colorful outfit, stripping down to her regular clothes. “I’m absolutely, positively melting in this ridiculous kit. And before you ask, Afarôt isn’t back.”
Afarôt had gone looking for Enoch, the Steward of the Earth realm, to see if the seal separating the dimensions had strengthened since Septis had been stopped. But that had been a week ago, and still no one had heard from either one of them.
Micah reached behind her back, to where her T-shirt tucked into her jeans.
“No way,” Gabe said.
Micah held the prize in her hand, a single pack of microwaveable popcorn. She handed it to him.
“Gross. It’s all sweaty and warm.”
“Oh, shut it.” Her other hand continued to search deeper into her jeans. “I’ve got another, but it fell. I thought I was going to kick it out of my trousers walking back. I’m fairly certain popcorn isn’t on our Nazi-controlled organic bollocks diet, is it? Do you know that nobody has said a word since my request? Not a single, bloody word. Totally ignored, it was. If I don’t get a curry in the next few days, I will become positively homicidal.”
She finally readjusted her strategy and shook her leg until the small packet, labeled Movie Theater Butter, fell out over her foot. A ravenous look formed on her face. “I can practically taste the fake, buttery deliciousness already.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Well, you’re the one who needs distraction from the PTS whatever,” Micah said.
“Not much of a distraction when you mention it during the actual thing meant to be the distraction. And I’d like to see you go face-to-face with a demon. We’ll see how much sleep you get after.”
Micah put her hands on her hips. “I was mostly dead, remember?”
“Dead or not dead,” Gabe said, following her lead and removing the cellophane wrapper from his packet. “There is no mostly.”
“Never mind. Are we doing this, or what?”
“Fine. Same rules as last time?” Gabe asked, laughing.
“Yes, fastest to finish. Full bag, though. Don’t make a mess, okay? Not like last time.”
“I’m thinking popcorn is going to be my thing. Much easier than hot chocolate. Much less painful, too.”
“Let’s hope.” Micah looked at the clock by the bed and unfolded the packet in her hands, as if readying it for the microwave, though there was no microwave in the room. “You might want to take off the ring. Maybe just this once.”
Gabe considered it for a moment, but it seemed like a really bad idea. “Not allowed, because it’s The Worst Thing. It’ll be fine.”
“Whatever. On your mark?”
“Get set,” said Gabe, holding his packet, unfolded in his cupped hands.
“Go,” they said together.
Gabe concentrated on the bag, but his gaze drifted up as he checked the competition. Micah stared at her popcorn, her eyes narrowed, focused.
Beneath Gabe’s packet was a whitish-blue glow. He smiled, proud of taking the lead, and smirked at Micah, only to find a similar glow beneath her popcorn. Hers carried tones of green and yellow.
“Better keep your eyes on the prize, Mr. Adam,” she said in a mocking tone.
Gabe redoubled his concentration, knowing she was right. A film of sweat formed on his brow as the glow grew brighter. Micah’s bag popped. Then popped again. The color of the energy cupped in her hands became whiter.
Calling on his power had become easier since his battle with Septis in Axum, and to beat Micah, he knew he needed more. He’d not mastered control, but he’d definitely improved. In his mind flashed wide-open jaws, razor-sharp teeth reaching. Living black smoke surrounded the dragon-like form, and in the shadow’s darkness, red eyes appeared.
He shook his head, trying to throw the image from his mind.
The packet jumped with a popping kernel. Then another. He felt a crescendo building in his hands. His bag expanded quickly, catching up to Micah’s.
“Don’t go overboard,” she warned.
“Quit talking. That’s cheating, trying to break my concentration. Because you know I’ve got this,” Gabe said. His bag was expanding rapidly, splitting at its opening. It looked fuller than Micah’s. “See?”
He expected a look of disappointment from Micah, but instead he saw her eyes widen, her mouth gape.
“Gabe?” she said, walking backward, away from him. Her power dimmed until it went dark and she dropped her bag. “I think your popcorn is on fire.”
With the noxious odor of singed paper, his laughter transformed into some kind of high-pitched whimpering freak-out. A trickle of smoke bloomed from his bag, adding the harsher stench of burnt popcorn. “I can’t turn it off, Micah.” He began to hop, though he didn’t exactly know why. In his panicked mind, the bouncing movement would act like some kind of fire retardant.
Micah had moved behind the couch, her hand unsuccessfully covering the amusement on her face. She offered a string of expletives through her fingers, which, with her accent, sounded like a John Keats poem.
“It won’t stop, it won’t stop, it won’t stop.” He pulled a hand away, but his palm still glowed. A spark of flame came to life on the bag of popcorn. He ran to a window, but it would not open. “Don’t just stand there. Help me!”
Micah ducked behind the couch, laughing hysterically as Gabe tripped about the apartment, juggling the flaming bag of popcorn.
He pulled the curtains back from another window, and the lace material ignited instantly at his touch.
Micah stopped laughing.
This window wouldn’t open either. He looked around the room and found no other option, as the flames got bigger. He dropped the burning bag on the floor and grabbed an old-looking metal candlestick, turned his head, and threw it at the window, shattering the glass out onto the street below. Gabe picked up the flaming bag, juggled it briefly, trying not to burn himself, and managed to throw it out the window. Cursing a stream of expletives, he tore the flaming curtain from the banner and tossed it, too.
At last, his hands quit glowing.
Panting, he looked at Micah and imagined he had the same look of shock on his face that she wore. After a brief moment, they burst into a fit of laughter.
“We’re so done for,” Micah said, her hand sti
ll over her mouth to hide her grin.
Gabe looked out the window, to the gathering herd of fire-extinguisher-wielding, clown-dressed Swiss Guard below.
“Yeah. But they’ve already sent us to our room for a couple of weeks, like we’re children. How much worse could it get?”
They laughed a moment more, until they could hardly catch their breath, and then the moment began to fade, just as it did every time. Like a high wearing away, until there was this lingering silence weighing down the air between them, full of heavy thoughts of the horrible things they’d seen. The isolation from the world and the fear crept back into the corners of Gabe’s mind.
Micah looked away first, retreating to the view of St. Peter’s Basilica.
The smoke alarm wailed to life, cutting through the awkwardness in the room, and small sprinkler heads popped out of the ceiling. They spritzed a moment before showering down a deluge of water. The white couch turned an uneven gray. The alarm clock sparked, its numbers fizzling out.
“Well, it got worse,” Micah said, and she was laughing again.
But Gabe felt some reprieve from it all, the sound of her laughter filling his senses, hearty and waking and promising like the smell of fresh baked bread or brewed coffee. And that was something. Something quite special, actually. As he looked at the living room, now beginning to flood, he was unable to hold back his laughter. He had only one thought.
Worth it.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Your privacy privilege is hereby revoked,” Gabe’s father, Joseph, said. He looked winded, his black hair messed up a bit more than usual, and his tortoise-shell glasses slid a little lower on his nose.
Anger, Gabe thought. An obvious response, given what they’d done, and yet a reaction neither he nor Micah had seen while at the Vatican. Everyone else scolded, if it even could be called that, with a polite and careful demeanor. But Gabe knew what that was about.
Fear. It sparked in the eyes of every man and woman who had witnessed what he, Micah, and Afarôt could do. He’d seen the same in the eyes of those fleeing the streets of Axum as Septis wreaked his horrors upon them.
