Ashes to Ashes

by Carrie F. Shepherd

  “Never.” This was a horrified whisper, which only served to make Loki grin.

  “The seed doesn’t die immediately, Michael.”

  “My Lord?” He asked, confused.

  “Lady Anemoi is a member of my gaggle.” He continued to grin. “And I have a most convincing tongue.” Michael blushed at the reference and looked swiftly away. “I can charm her into helping you.”

  Embarrassed, he muttered, “I fail to see how the Lady of Winter—”

  “Can freeze your seed?” Loki asked, brow rising. “Until there is a female ready for breeding in which we can—very innocently—insert it?”

  Michael seemed to crumple. “Piss on the Gods . . .”

  “You would be able to obey both orders at once.” Loki assured him. “And whatever fuck-a-ding Noliminan is up to would be completely thwarted.”

  “He never bid that I must literally have sex with them.” Michael swallowed, raised his gaze and then smiled. He ignored Loki’s misstep by actually saying Noliminan’s name aloud. Given my respect for Loki, I was relieved by this. Such was strictly forbidden by one of his stature. “Only that the children are mine. I will have obeyed both orders.”

  “And,” Loki sighed, “more importantly, you will have saved your innocence for whatever soul you believe deserves it now that Queen Raguel is no longer an option for you.”

  Michael let out a tired, almost painful gasp. He hadn’t been aware that anyone knew about his deep love for the Queen of Ladies. “My Lord Loki.”

  Loki smiled wearily in response.

  -8-

  Prince Ishitar was in his bedroom when he heard the low, growling scream. Na’amah, watching him, became extremely interested as he lowered the wood that he had been whittling into a fairy. He stood, his brow furrowed, and slipped out of his bedroom.

  Na’amah, also curious, followed him.

  When Prince Ishitar stopped just outside of the library and began listening to Lord Loki and Sir Michael’s conversation, Na’amah was more than a little surprised. Though she had known the young prince for only a short amount of time, she felt that she understood his fundamental nature. As such, she wouldn’t have expected him to snoop or spy. Yet, he clearly found this conversation one that he couldn’t tear himself away from.

  Until that was, Sir Michael’s voice calmed and it became a conversation between two men who seemed to be friends rather than one man seeking counsel from a better.

  It was at that point in the conversation between Sir Michael and Lord Loki that Prince Ishitar turned away from the library door and returned to his bedchamber.

  He sat on the bed, his brow furrowed and his lips curled into a frown. Na’amah, who wanted to gain his trust and confidence, stepped toward him, laid her head upon his knee and turned her mismatched eyes up to him after giving him what she hoped was—for a dog—an understanding sigh.

  “Why would my father issue such conflicting orders?” Prince Ishitar asked her—or so she thought; he was actually asking me—as he laid his hand between her ears and began to rub her there. “Of all people to play kings’ castles with? Why would he set Michael up to lose his hillocks?”

  She marked that he seemed to be listening to someone, as if they were speaking to him, and that he, then, sighed. After which, he nodded and said, “Zadkiel has always told me that Noliminan is unforgiving.”

  He smiled tightly, listening again.

  “Didn’t I see that for myself where Camael is concerned?” She whined. She hadn’t heard that story. “Yet, it makes no sense. Michael is one of the most loyal to Noliminan of the entire Quorum. He has never, in his life, acted against Noliminan’s orders.”

  What was Na’amah to do but whine at this sentiment as he seemed to listen again? So she did.

  “Why would he punish Michael for doing exactly what he had been told to do?” Prince Ishitar shook his head. “Why would he want to put Michael—out of all of his servants—in his place? He already knows his place! This makes no sense.”

  Na’amah, who agreed with that sentiment, barked. His constant conversations with himself agitated her.

  “Hush.” He warned, though he was smiling down at her, his eyes full of his love for her. “I’m getting one of my damned headaches.” He raised his thumb and index finger to his nose to rub the bridge of it, almost as if to prove the point. “Michael will weather this storm. He shall find the perfect angel to serve him; to help him.”

  Na’amah, knowing that making Prince Ishitar’s headache worse would anger him, licked his hand and then fell still. He snorted at that and rubbed her head again.

  “I miss Zadkiel.” He muttered under his breath. Na’amah raised her gaze to meet his. “Don’t look at me that way.” He smiled. “He was a good father to me.” He laughed then and shook his head. “For a brother.”

  Na’amah, who didn’t know how to respond to that, barked.

  “I wish that I could see him right now.” Prince Ishitar muttered. “I wish that I could speak with him.” Another chuckle; another shake of the head. “Because I can’t always turn to him for help. I have to learn to navigate these situations on my own.”

  Na’amah barked again.

  “Stop it!” Prince Ishitar laughed. “I told you that I’m getting a headache!”

  To this she did a combo whine, bark. This made him laugh all the more.

  “Alright.” He said, standing. “You’re hungry.” And then with a shake of his head. “And from what I understand, Aiken has another body in the cooling cupboard. This time a human I think.”

  He laughed again as his nose curled in distaste.

  “I don’t get his taste for it.” He leaned down and rubbed her head. “Or yours.” Then with another laugh. “But I’m not a fairy. Am I?” His smile grew. Na’amah found herself puzzled by her covetous feelings for that smile, given he was beyond her reach. “Nor a dog! So eat what you will, and I shall broker no judgment upon you.”

  Na’amah had no other response than to, once again, whine her agreement.

  -9-

  Zamyael heard the ringing of the bells, which were secured to the chain forged around Zadkiel’s ankle, and panicked. She raised her gaze to meet his and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. His golden eyes were haunted and round. His equally golden lips were thin and drawn.

  “What does he want?” She whispered.

  “I know not.” He muttered as he used his staff to assist himself to his feet. “Whatever it is, best I don’t keep him waiting.”

  Terrified for her dear friend, she nodded.

  She had no words to comfort him. She knew what Noliminan was capable of and that if he was calling Zadkiel after all of these years of silence, it could only be because he was angry with him. Given she had paid the heavy costs that she had when Noliminan set out to play his games, she understood well enough that whatever price there was to pay would be levied upon Zadkiel’s head.

  “Don’t wait up.” He muttered as he hobbled to the door of the cottage that they shared. “I may be in for a very long night.”

  Though she nodded at him, she had no intention of going to bed until he returned. Zadkiel, though not her lover, had become her dearest friend. She would be here for him when he returned, no matter the state in which he arrived.

  “Oh, Azrael . . .” She sighed. “If Zad’s in trouble . . . I wish I could see you tonight.”

  There was no answer, though she had not expected there to be one. In her mind, I was as gone to her as was Lasterian.

  She returned to her needlework, trying to ignore her growing dismay. Realizing, after twenty shifts of Lord Countenance’s shadow of trying to clear her vision from the tears that were burning her eyes, that her task was useless, she set her craft aside.

  When she did so, she heard a knock on the door.

  Surprised, she stood and walked with great apprehension toward it. When she opened it, she froze.

  Standing on the stoop was a human she did not recognize. He had long brown hair, whi
ch he wore bound behind him with a leather strap, and dark green eyes. Which were, she noted, dancing over her face with what could only be described as deep devotion and admiration.

  As for his clothes, they were strange to her. Dark blue, cotton pants that were far too tight and a shirt that appeared to be chambray but was clearly made of much finer stuff. It was open to the middle of his torso, revealing a strangely hairless chest for a human man. His boots were those meant for trail riding and his belt was slender and seemed to be meant more for decoration than function.

  She swallowed and raised her hand to the door, ready to close it on him when she sent him away. “Yes?”

  The man shook his head and pointed to his throat. He looked around himself quickly, then raised his hands. In the gestures which only Sappharon had ever used with her, he signed with lightening quickness, “You asked me to come to you, Zam. Here I am. I cannot speak to you and you cannot see my true face. But I am Azrael.” She blinked at me, as if confused. “May I, please, come in?”

  She stumbled backward, her hands flying to her chest. “Azrael?”

  “Wearing the face of a human who lives ages in the future on another, very distant world.” I signed. “I can take on the form of others. Just not mine own. This is a man that no one will pay any mind to for long and long, as he has not yet been born. May I, please, come in?”

  Swallowing, Zamyael looked around herself. She licked her lips and asked in a choked whisper, “Zadkiel?”

  “Noliminan has asked Metatron to whip him raw.” I signed, lowering my gaze. “Until Zadkiel reveals where Ishitar is hiding.”

  “Dear Gods . . .”

  “May I, please, come in?”

  “Yes.” She whispered, stepping back and pulling the door open. “I’m sorry. Yes. Of course you may come in.”

  Wearing a haunted smile that matched the terror in my heart, I returned to the cottage that I had long ago come to consider as my one true home.

  -10-

  Ishitar stepped into his bedchamber and froze. Aiken stood within, folding his clothes into two neat stacks, separating Ishitar’s shendyts from his small clothes. He had raised a pair of the latter upward and was staring at it with such unguarded curiosity that Ishitar actually blinked.

  “Taking your liberties?” He asked.

  Aiken, starting, spun to face him. His cheeks blazed pink as he let out an embarrassed chortle. “No—I—It’s not what you think.”

  “No?” Ishitar asked, his lips curling into a puzzled smile.

  “No.” Aiken tittered again. “Forgive me. Clothes fascinate me.”

  “One would never be able to suppose such a thing of you.” Ishitar teased as he flicked his gaze to Aiken’s loincloth.

  “I don’t understand wearing one set of trousers.” Blushing again, Aiken looked swiftly away. “Let alone two.”

  “They’re actually quite comfortable.” Ishitar shrugged. “But, then again, I don’t much care for the feeling of—”

  The first crack of the whip fell across Zadkiel’s back at that moment. Unable to stay my horror of being forced to witness this, every form of me screamed and turned abruptly in an unsuccessful attempt to look away. My movement was so sudden and unexpected that Ishitar, himself, let out a cry and turned violently toward me. As he watched me, I fell to my knees, raised my hands to my face and began to tremble.

  “My Gods!” Ishitar cried.

  “What?” Aiken, wearing a confused expression, asked.

  “What in the name of Loki’s beard is the matter with you?” Ishitar ignored the fairy. “What did you just see?”

  “Zadkiel!” I cried.

  “Da?” Ishtar flew toward me so that he could kneel beside me and set his hands upon my shoulders, forcing me to turn to face him. “What—how do you mean?”

  “He’s in your father’s library.” I swallowed and tried to blink away the blood that made up my tears. “Your father is . . .”

  Ishitar’s nostrils flared. He flew to his feet and bolted out the door, ignoring Aiken’s plea to tell him what was going on. He was in the hallway outside of Loki’s apartment before he, seemingly, remembered to use his Godly powers to will himself into his father’s library.

  It was there that he found Metatron standing over Zadkiel with a whip at the ready to flail another lash.

  “Stop!” He cried, pushing Metatron out of the way.

  He swung around to face his father, who was looking up at him with a self-satisfied smirk. Beside him sat Raziel, her full lips curled into a slightly amused smile. Looking upon the pair, I wanted to jump forward and strangle them both.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “These are the lengths I must apparently go to in order to garner a word with you.” Noliminan replied with a bored shrug, flicking his eyes to Metatron and Zadkiel. “The pair of you have outlived your usefulness to me this evening. You may go.”

  Metatron, who wore an expression of pure horror, sprang forward to take an unconscious Zadkiel in his arms. Ishitar, spinning toward him, commanded him to wait. He, himself, flew to the end of the desk upon which Zadkiel was strapped and placed his hand upon Zadkiel’s brow. As he did so, he saw the extent of the damage that had been done. Zadkiel’s entire body—but for his face—was covered in gaping wounds from his heavy scourging.

  “No pain, Da.” Ishitar whispered as he leaned forward to kiss Zadkiel’s brow. “No more pain from these wounds.” He raised his gaze to meet Metatron’s. I know that he would have loathed Metatron if not for the expression of distaste and horror he wore. And, if not for the fact that Metatron had had no choice. “Take him home, Met.”

  “Yes, your Royal Highness.” Metatron’s deep voice trembled. He stepped forward and gathered Zadkiel into his arms so he might use his own powerful magic to transport them to Zadkiel’s cottage.

  When they were gone, Ishitar spun around to face his father and Raziel. He glared at Raziel and seethed, “Leave us. This conversation is between my father and me.”

  She appeared to be ready to protest, but she stopped herself as Noliminan turned his light brown eyes toward her and gave her a curt nod. Though she clearly didn’t like being dismissed, at his command she obeyed. As she was walking out of the room, Ishitar turned toward the desk and waved his hand toward it to clear it of Zadkiel’s golden blood. When it was returned to its rights, his attention flew back to his father.

  His initial question bore repeating. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “What is the meaning of you sitting in an open courtyard with that Gods be damned Aiken of the Oakland Grove and that strecktla of a demon, Zamyael!” His father seethed.

  Ishitar’s lips thinned at the insult toward the woman who he thought of more as his mother than the woman who had birthed him. Now, however, when Noliminan was playing at kings’ castles with Ishitar, was not the time to raise his love for Zamyael to his father’s attention. Clearly, his message had been that he could destroy everything that Ishitar cared about if it would further his advance in their game.

  “How is it that I learn that you are no longer living with Zadkiel through rumor and word of mouth rather than direct from your own lips?”

  “You haven’t exactly been available when I’ve come to call.” Ishitar seethed as his eyes narrowed. “You and Raziel have been up to games of your own, if I am not mistaken. Were you to make time for me when I paid you a visit, perhaps, you wouldn’t be forced to learn the move of my mermaid out of Raphael’s supplicated fear of you.”

  “Where, exactly,” his father seethed, “are you living now?”

  “With Lord Loki.” Noliminan snarled upon hearing this news. Ishitar smiled. “You and Mother did bid that I learn from both worlds so that I might bring them together in peace.” He shrugged. “I’m only doing as you require.”

  “Loki,” Noliminan growled, “is an unfit selection.”

  “While this may be,” Ishitar grinned, “he is well respected by both realms. You cannot deny that he is the perf
ect solution.”

  He couldn’t. And it, very obviously, maddened him.

  Noliminan looked swiftly away and seethed, “What is this I hear about your mother being pregnant with Loki’s child?”

  “She’s building a Quorum.” Ishitar’s eyes narrowed. “As you well know.” His eyes narrowed even further as he glared at his father. “Unless your plans have changed now that you’ve taken Raziel to wife.”

  “They haven’t.” Noliminan snorted. “You know Raziel will never match the place your mother holds in my heart.”

  “Then allow Lucias to play her own game.” Ishitar suggested. “She has to prove her own power. She’ll never garner the respect of the Council if she doesn’t. She needs twelve pillows on her side of the thrones to prove she is your equal and your rightful match.”

  Noliminan sat back in his chair, his eyes crawling over Ishitar as if assessing him. Finally he asked, “That’s what this is all about?”

  “Of course that’s what this is all about!” Ishitar snapped. “You can’t possibly believe she’d choose Loki over you.”

  Noliminan’s features relaxed slightly. I didn’t believe for a minute that his emotions matched his now calm expression. He loathed Lord Loki. Never mind that he would never stand for the woman that he loved above all others to lie abed with another man. His response to Ishitar, in that moment, was merely part of his overall game.

  “Who is Loki in the grand scheme of things?” Ishitar asked him, his eyes darting to me and then back to Noliminan. I felt my brow furrow over the expression on his face at that moment but passed it off as irritation that yet another private conversation was being overheard by me. “Other than a nymph who was—by your own decree—turned into a very base and self-serving God.”

  “Very well.” Noliminan leveled his gaze upon Ishitar. His light brown eyes flashed, confirming my supposition that he was lying to his son about the true depths of the anger that resided in his heart. “You may live with Loki. And you may learn what you can from him.” Ishitar began to smile. I wanted nothing more than but to warn him that he was being played, although, I suspected, my warning was unnecessary.