With both her hands on the his which gripped the hilt, she continued struggling to claim the sword as her own.
“You haven’t earned this yet, my beauty, but if you’re so eager…” He jerked the sword away from her and stabbed it into the floor on their left. He forced her to bend and rest her elbows on the cement ledge. His legs pinned hers against the wall.
This was it. This was how it was going to happen.
Instead of rose petals and satin sheets, rough cement scoured her skin. Instead of candles, she had the just-past-full moon overhead. Instead of feeling his soft kisses, he wound her hair around his fist and pulled her head back sharply.
If there was any consolation, it was the scimitar thrumming and purring so close, inciting the darkblood within her.
A whoosh of air blew past. A deep voice commanded, “Stop this.”
TWENTY-FIVE
JOVIENNE TWISTED TOWARD the voice. Though restrained and unable to move much, she could see who it was. “Eitan!” He glared at Araxiel, wings fanned in an aggressive arch. “Move away from her.”
“Wing off, half-breed. I’m not done.”
She tried to wriggle free and negate the compromising position so she might cover herself, but Araxiel’s grip in her hair was firm.
“Move. Away.” Eitan nearly shouted the words.
Araxiel snorted. “Like you’d do anything about it.”
“Let go,” Jovienne said. She had no holy sword to draw power from, but the golden scimitar was within reach. While Eitan and Araxiel traded words, her left elbow eased off the ledge and her arm straightened. She snatched the handle and pulled hard on its power, shoving down her right arm as she grabbed Araxiel’s arm.
The power was white-hot. It stabbed through her like icicles tainted with black smoke and ash. She screamed.
Araxiel screamed, too, and recoiled. He spared only a second to glare at Eitan before he raced down the stairs and away from Coit Tower.
Jovienne collapsed to the floor, gasping and whimpering, unable to release the sword. She made the motion to throw it from her, and the seared skin of her palm tore away and went with it as it clattered to the floor.
She screamed again and writhed in pain. The power crashed inside her, seeking an outlet. Her right hand stretching up, she gripped the window ledge and fed the energy to that cool stone, melting it in the middle.
Only when the golden sword’s power had been released did the pain within her ease.
Laying on the floor, she drew a ragged breath and looked at her raw and bleeding left palm. It continued to throb. She gave a pitiful moan.
Movement across the way made her remember that Eitan was here. She sat up and hugged her knees close. Shame heated her cheeks.
A moment passed before she was able to look at him. When she did, his expression—a mix of surprise, concern, and disappointment—tripled her shame.
Without a word, he spread his wings and flew away.
FATHER EVERLY TAPPED on his guestroom door. The door opened slightly. “Nathan? I just wanted to—” He could see the bed was empty.
He tried to tell himself the young man was a night owl. He had just gone for a walk. But there was doubt and fear in his heart, the same doubt and fear ruining his parish.
In his own bedroom, Father Everly lowered himself onto creaking, achy knees and began to pray. “On the eve of your resurrection, there is a young man out there, Lord, who could bring great changes and renewal to my parish. While I want that for my congregation, that same young man feels defiled and used at being a vessel of your Holy Spirit. I accept whatever your will may be and I’ll do all I can for those who come to my church for as long as I can…but I pray for that young man who…I may never see again. Whatever path you have designed for him, I ask that he also finds a renewal of faith.”
ANDREI LEAPT BUILDING to building, hurrying toward Coit Tower, until he had to go to the ground. There, he utilized the quickening as much as he dared. Though after midnight and technically Easter Sunday, the Saturday night drinkers hadn’t left the bars yet. There was enough traffic to keep his pace slow.
Feeling the effects of having used the quintanumin a lot, he ran up the Filbert Steps as fast as he could, his mind afire with all he wanted to say.
He arrived at the bottom of Coit Tower to find it deserted. There was no one to be seen in the immediate vicinity, either. But he could feel a signature of energy. She had been here. He had missed her.
He remembered what she had said about them both being weavers. He hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t wanted to. But he needed clues. He needed information. Dropping to one knee, he put his hands flat on the ground. Closing his eyes, he concentrated.
It was there…but shapeless, indistinct. He called the ghost hands and felt with them. What he felt was dark, chaotic. He recalled that he had often admonished her for gestures that belied her actions, and that she had defended the motions saying it helped her focus.
His fingers caressed the blades of grass and curled into earth as if he could physically grip the information he wanted to find.
JOVIENNE SAT AS she was atop Coit Tower for long minutes, whimpering, crying, wondering what to do next.
She stood and removed her boots. After gathering her clothing and weapons one-handed, tucking most into the legs of her boots, she called the wings, eager to return to the warehouse for clothes and to think. Her gaze fell to the golden sword laying where she had thrown it.
She shouldn’t leave it here.
A sound drew her gaze to the walkways below the tower. There, Andrei crouched. His hands rubbed across the ground. She didn’t know how he had found her, but hated the thought that he might find her like this.
After ensuring she was invisible, she cradled her laden boots in the crook of her left arm, and then used a piece of her ruined vest to wrap the golden hilt and held it in her right hand as she flew away.
TWENTY-SIX
Easter Sunday
THE SUN WAS not up, though birds heralded its arrival. Shielded from sight, Jovienne stood in a bus stop shelter diagonal from St. Timothy’s watching people shuffle inside for the early service.
They came in small groups. Elderly couples or families with young children. Parents urged sleepy children dressed in their Easter best up the stone steps and through the arched doorway. Not many for such a big church, but the smaller the group the better for her.
Her left hand was gloved. In the hours since the burn, she’d poured holy water from the dagger on it near constantly. It had reached a useable point. The remaining soreness was eased by the glove, but underneath, her hand was yet swollen and ugly. Her fingers wound around the two hilts belted at her waist. The golden sword on her left warmed like a stovetop under her touch. The Hellborne steel hummed a velvet kiss that thrummed up her arm, sliding to her back under her shoulder blade as if it would avoid the bejeweled pin which she wore. The warm desire stirred the parts of her the scimitar’s true master wanted to touch. It filled her with a kind of contentment, similar to that earned by answering the Call, but satisfied something deeper, darker, something bound in flesh.
Contrarily, her bare right hand gripped the sword with the scripted J. It afforded her a cool caress that skittered along her soul like snowflakes moved by a whisper.
Reluctantly, she released both swords. The mass would begin soon. She stepped from the bus shelter ready to cross, but hesitated as a late family hurried toward the church from the parking lot. Then, an approaching cab began to slow. Jovienne stepped back into the bus shelter.
A thin man in a dark coat exited the vehicle. As she watched him trudge up the steps, she decided he either wasn’t able to move fast, or he didn’t mind being late. Something about him was off, so she waited until he’d had time to enter and find a seat.
Aware that if anyone tended the door they would see it open and shut with no one causing it, Jovienne opened St. Timothy’s door quickly. Seeing no attendant, she gave a sigh of relief and passed the small basin of holy water. A rope barrier blo
cked the stairs to an overhead sign designated as The Rear Choir Loft. Assuming it would have the best view, she stepped over the rope and went up.
The ghost hands crawled up the steps ahead of her and detected no one. She climbed the narrow stairs, which reeked of dampness and rot. Upon emerging into the loft, she noted a dark watermark on the plaster above from a leak in the roof.
The floor up here wasn’t level, and she wasn’t surprised when her next step brought a loud squeak. It probably wasn’t safe up here, but she continued anyway, though she decided to wait until the assemblage began singing so the squeaking wouldn’t be heard.
It wasn’t a long wait. The priest entered and spoke a brief greeting to his tiny congregation. Moments later the first song began and Jovienne took a seat.
NATHAN AWAKENED ON the porch of Father Everly’s Painted Lady, but the priest had already gone to prepare for the service. He’d let himself in with the key from under the flower pot, called for a cab, and showered quickly. What slowed him down was the time it took to dress the burn on his arm.
He ran a hand through his hair. He was losing control. If he ever had any in the first place.
Maybe he was losing his mind. He’d always witnessed weird things in his dreams, but the blackouts and the silent heat in his head were new. Then there was the black diamond woman. She showed up over and over, as did the wet-dream mess on his sheets. He’d taken to sleeping on a towel in the guest room.
But last night…last night was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. And the handprint burn on his forearm terrified him.
Making matters worse, he’d arrived late to the church and rushed through the doors barely before the singing began. Father Everly had given a visible sigh of relief and motioned him to the front pew. The whole congregation knew he was not a familiar face, so by default they knew who he was and what he was here for. He could feel the eyes on him, waiting for him to rise up and bleed.
He shifted in his seat, wishing he could hide from the spirit. But that was impossible. It wouldn’t pass him by and make someone else bleed. This was Easter Sunday and he sat front row center while everyone in the congregation prayed for that watchful eye to make use of him.
JOVIENNE TOOK IN the view from the loft. Built to an impressive size, grand arches sat on doubled pillars before the apse. In the space before the bubble of the dome, painted angels leaned out over the pews. On the right was a woman with light brown hair wearing blue robes, her ivory wings spread wide. On the left, a man in red robes spread brown wings. He reminded her of Eitan.
Both paintings were cracked and in danger of being lost for all time.
The room fell silent as the deacon stepped forward to begin the prayer reading.
Her gaze moving to the stained-glass windows, Jovienne saw an image of an angel bending over a serene, kneeling woman, while directing a pale beam of light to shine on the woman’s head. It made her think of the seraph’s knee-weakening glow.
As the priest gave his Easter lecture about the persecution of Christ and his crucifixion, her attention shifted to him, and the big round stained glass window behind him. It was broad and tall, detailed with blues and golds. It depicted no person, just shapes and colors like a kaleidoscope. She studied the pattern throughout the sermon, but could not decide what it represented, other than the skill of the craftsman.
“Before you stand and come forward to receive this blessed communion,” the priest said, “I’d like to introduce to you our honored guest, Nathan Marshall.” He gestured to the thin man on the front row. That man stood and shrugged out of a dark peacoat, and then turned to the crowd with a sheepish look.
Jovienne came to her feet.
Araxiel!
This was him, or rather the man who had seen her near the Painted Ladies. Anemic-looking, even in his off-white sweater and beige slacks, he was hardly the robust and sensual man who had given her the golden sword, and yet he was none other.
“Nathan has been blessed. He carries stigmata…and though,” the priest smiled at Nathan, “he’s been effected a half dozen times in the last month, there has been no activity these past few days.”
Araxiel is also a stigmatic? How can this be?
“We hope,” the priest continued, “that we are blessed with witnessing this holy manifestation. He will be with us for all masses today.” The priest asked the congregation to come forward and accept the communion.
The man—Araxiel? Nathan?—waited until the aisle filled, and then walked to the end of the line. He scratched his arms and looked up and around. She ducked down. When she checked again, he was fidgeting constantly, more so as he neared the head of the line.
He housed the Sanctus Spiritus, the Holy Spirit of God. That’s who she was supposed to use sword to slay…
I’m being set up.
In order for her plan to work, however, she couldn’t let the Sanctus Spiritus get away, either. It had been her intention to scare the mortals away, but she wouldn’t kill anyone in front of children. She had to alter her plan.
Nathan began to shake.
Dark stains appeared on his sweater. Expression mournful, he pushed the sleeves up, smearing blood up his arm, away from his wrists. More fluid welled up. Thick, scarlet rivulets trailed his arm and dripped on the floor.
“Damn it,” Jovienne said under her breath. She needed more time to work out a change. She called the wings.
People gasped and encircled Nathan, falling to their knees. Nathan’s eyes rolled up in his head and his arms spread rigidly out from his body as if he were resisting. In an instant, he snapped into the pose, crucified before them. Blood dribbled down his brow and a dark stain spread across the side of his sweater. His head lolled to one side and his eyelids jerked. Blood ran over his shoes and dripped to the floor.
He appeared to have slumped, yet something held him up, something raised him above the ground by inches and tucked his feet into position. The noise of numerous murmured prayers filled the sanctuary. A few scrabbled for their phones to film it.
“Fuck it.” Jovienne released the invisibility.
Leaping from the choir loft, her black wings spread. She swooped down, arms encircling Nathan Marshall’s waist even as she slammed against him. Amid shouts of fear, she clutched the stigmatic to her chest and beat her wings, crashing through the center of the round stained glass window behind the lectern.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JOVIENNE DROPPED NATHAN Marshall to the warehouse floor exactly where her mortality had been stripped away. His body hit with a dull thud. She hadn’t intended to bring him here, but the Sanctus Spiritus had left him when they crashed out of the sanctuary. She knew it because his rigid body had gone limp.
Now she paced, panicking.
Since this man was the vessel of the Holy Spirit, she reasoned that it had to come back, eventually. But the Sanctus Spiritus was sentient. It would know there was danger.
The problem was, if this man was also Araxiel, and she was being set up, then she was in danger. What was his game?
And which one would he be first?
Her captive’s pale lids fluttered. Standing beside him, wings arched, she commanded, “Sit up, but do not stand.”
He rubbed his eyes as if sleepy and mumbled, “I couldn’t stand up if I had to.”
She didn’t respond.
When he seemed possessed of himself again, he checked his surroundings. Surprise, confusion, and concern ran over his features. “Where am I?” When he twisted around and found her, his expression changed to fear. He began hyperventilating. “You!”
Jovienne squinted.
“Are you going to make it stop? Have you come to take it away from me?” His words jumbled together.
Instead of answering, she walked a wide circle around him, staying out of reach. “Tell me about the bleeding.”
He turned his head, following her, and then twisted to the other side, anticipating her arrival there. “Please.” He swallowed. “I don’t want it anymore.” His f
ace contorted. “Take it away.”
She could relate to his plea, and upon consideration, found she understood his pain more than she wanted to. This rallied her clemency, but she dared not sympathize with him. Pity would only make this more difficult. “Tell me of the bleeding. How does it happen?”
At her insistence, his gaze fell. “My skin just opens up.”
“Do it for me,” she said, gripping the warm hilt at her side.
“What?”
“Do it. The bleeding.” The warm kiss of the heated hilt emboldened her voice. “Summon the other and bleed for me.”
“I can’t. I’ve never ‘summoned’ it and nothing in particular seems to trigger it.” He looked up at her, but his brows remained low. “It’s not a trick I can perform at will. It happens to me. Though I wish it would never happen again.” He sounded miserable. “I know I should think of it as a blessing, but I don’t. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it gets worse somehow.”
He was a pawn like herself, tied to both sides and desperate to get out.
“Angel…”
She released the golden hilt and peered through the roof hole above him, expecting to see the seraph descending. The sky was clear.
Again, he said, “Angel?” He squinted at her.
Jovienne realized he meant her, despite the leathery wings. She searched his face before answering, “Yes?”
“Why did you bring me here?”
She hadn’t presumed there would be conversation between them or that a sense of comradery might tug at her heart. Silent, she considered whether or not she should answer. Even so, a question passed her lips. “Have you ever seen a burnt figure crawl up from the ground?”
Nathan sucked in a breath. He whispered, his voice trembling. “The witches.”
“Witches?”
“The ropes that still bind them. They were burned at the stake, weren’t they?”
Her brow puckered. Neither she nor Andrei ever connected that detail. He could be right, but what did that mean?
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