Rebellion baf-2

by Lou Morgan

  “Don’t worry. You won’t get your feet wet. Our door’s up there...” He pointed up. Alice followed his finger. High up in the walls winding around the rock was a door. A wide wooden door which opened out into mid-air. Although she didn’t exactly have the best view of it from where she stood, Alice was willing to bet that it was just wide enough for an angel’s wings.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Make the Call

  RIMMON WAS FLIPPING channels. He jabbed at the remote control with exasperated impatience, skipping from news channel to news channel, pausing only briefly on what might have been a daytime soap set in a hospital. It failed to hold his attention, and he was off again.

  The grainy black and white picture told him what he had been expecting: more riots, more demonstrations, more... everything. Large pockets of the city had become no-go areas, with police drafted in from all over the country to keep the peace. There was even talk of bringing in the army. Meanwhile, with police resources focused on protecting the great and good of the capital, other cities burned unchecked. Everywhere burned. The politicians had made one mistake; they assumed the riots had purpose. They assumed there was a reason, a cause. Something that the mob wanted to achieve. Something that could be fixed, or at the very least, protected against.

  They were wrong.

  They were wrong, and that was the best part.

  There was no cause: no cause other than people. And how can you fix them?

  “Man’s inhumanity to man...” said Forfax. They were in the broom cupboard that counted as his office. It was no more than five feet square, but he had somehow managed to shoehorn a desk and two rickety wooden chairs in there, as well as the stool on which the tiny television was balanced. The stool was missing a leg, and there were teeth-marks in two of the remaining three. There wasn’t room for both the Fallen to sit down at the same time, so Rimmon sat in the least-splintered of the chairs while Forfax hovered behind him, anxiously peering over his shoulder at the little screen. From somewhere nearby came the sound of barking. A lot of barking.

  “Hadn’t you better go and see to that?” Rimmon asked, not bothering to look up from his channel-hopping.

  “They’re fine. It’s feeding time: they’re just excited.”

  “Excited? I’d hate to hear them when they’re pissed off.”

  “It’s... not pleasant.” Forfax looked pained. “But that’s what he wanted, isn’t it?”

  “If that’s what he said.”

  “But you...”

  “Look.” Rimmon poked at the power button on the television and the stool wobbled dangerously. “I don’t interpret the message. I just pass it on. You want to try second-guessing him? Be my guest. But if I were you, I’d just get on with my job, and be grateful.”

  “Like I have been, you mean?” Forfax’s tone was snide. He somehow managed to take a step further into the office. His cane clicked against the floor as he set it down. “Now you listen to me, you little...” He cut himself off as Rimmon folded his arms and looked at him expectantly. Forfax took a deep breath and started again. “You don’t scare me, Rimmon. You may be his favourite, but favourites never last long, in my experience. You weren’t there at the beginning, and you won’t be there at the end.”

  “That sounds awfully like a threat, old man.”

  “Old man? Old man?” Forfax rolled back his shoulders and opened what was left of his ruined wings. The remnants of the burned feathers had blackened and matted to the bones, and they made an awful cracking sound as they jerked open. “I could crush you, boy.”

  “Crush me?” Rimmon darted forward, and before Forfax could respond, had snatched the cane and driven it into the back of the other Fallen’s knees, dropping him to the floor. Rimmon pressed the cane across Forfax’s throat as he knelt. “Like this?” Rimmon leaned over his shoulder and breathed the words into Forfax’s ear. The temperature of the room dropped several degrees, enough for their breath to mist in front of them, and Forfax nodded his defeat. Satisfied, Rimmon shoved him forwards. “The Twelve,” he said, sneering. “The best he has. Look at you – it’s no wonder he spent all that time losing the war. You, Azazel, Purson, Murmur... all as bad as each other. I’d have left you all in hell to die.”

  “While I hate to correct you, in Azazel’s case, you did.”

  “Maybe we should have left you there too. You might have been more useful.”

  Outside the broom cupboard, in the warehouse, the barking reached fever pitch. There was a single scream, abruptly cut off, and then silence.

  Except for the footsteps; the sound of hard-soled shoes on concrete.

  Rimmon and Forfax glanced at each other, frozen.

  The footsteps came closer. Careful, measured steps; never hurrying, never stumbling.

  And around the corner walked Lucifer, red eyes blazing.

  “What’s this? Fighting? Come, come. We can’t have that, can we? Not now. Not now we’re so close.” He gestured to the cane and held his hand out to Rimmon, who passed it to him. Lucifer took it and turned it round in his hands, running his fingers over the ornate pommel: a clear crystal roughly the size of a man’s fist, cut with hundreds of facets that sparkled in the light. He held it up as though considering it – and then brought it smashing down into the side of Forfax’s face.

  The force of the blow knocked the Fallen sideways, throwing him into the side of the desk with a meaty thunk. Before he had even hit the floor, Lucifer was already swinging again – this time at Rimmon, who took a blow to his solar plexus. He doubled over, his arms wrapped around his torso.

  Lucifer stood in the doorway, surveying the damage, then dropped the cane, letting it clatter to the ground. He straightened the jacket of his suit, smoothing the sleeves and picking off an imaginary speck of fluff, and sighed. “This squabbling. This bickering. This petty, petty behaviour.” He ran a hand through his blond hair. “It is simply... unacceptable!” He bellowed the last word, his voice echoing around the building and making both Forfax and Rimmon flinch. Somewhere in the warehouse, they heard pigeons taking off, startled by the noise.

  “Now, if it’s not too much trouble... we’re ready.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Make the call.” And with that, he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving only a chill in the air and the echo of calm footsteps in his wake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  No Man’s Land

  “WELL, THAT HAPPENED,” said Alice, peering down out of the doorway. The muddy sand really was a long way down from where she stood. She’d had no say in the matter, either: Zadkiel had simply marched up to her and grabbed her... and then the ground had dropped away beneath her feet, and then she was in the little room beyond the door. It was wide, with a low ceiling; she could see Mallory ducking his head slightly to avoid banging into the arches. There was no furniture: nothing but stone walls and a cobbled floor. The only light came in through the open doorway; the one through which they had just flown. Even thinking about it made Alice’s stomach churn.

  “You ever touch me again without asking, you’re going to lose something.” She shook a warning finger at him, but Zadkiel merely blinked at her.

  “You do know who I am, don’t you?”

  “Seriously? You think the ‘don’t you know who I am?’ speech works on me?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Like I said: touch me again...”

  Mallory interrupted her. “Alice? Let’s be nice, shall we?” He raised a hand to guide her away from Zadkiel.

  “Touching. No touching!” she snapped. Mallory backed off, holding up his hands.

  Vin leaned a little closer towards Zadkiel. “She has some... boundary issues.”

  “Boundary. Issues.” Zadkiel’s voice was like a steel door slamming shut.

  “Mostly, she’s worried about setting us on fire and plummeting to her death. It’s best not to startle her. What with the fire, and the burning, and everything.”

  “I see.” Zadkiel glanced over at Alice, shook his head, and muttere
d something under his breath, before turning back to Vin. “Is she always this difficult?”

  Alice watched Vin open his mouth, and pointed at him. “Don’t you dare answer that.”

  As if this was more than response enough, Vin gave Zadkiel a shrug, holding his hands out helplessly.

  Zadkiel nodded. “I stand by my earlier statement. Utterly insane.” He opened another wooden door on the far side of the room – a smaller and more regularly-proportioned version of the one they had come in by – and sunlight streamed across the floor. “You’ll fit right in.”

  ALICE BLINKED AS they emerged into the bright light again. They were in a narrow street, overlooking a small garden filled with trees, and the scent of sun-warmed pine filled the air. But it was the view which took Alice’s breath away.

  In front of her, past the trees and the stone walls draped in roses and herbs, the island dropped away. They were, at a rough guess, halfway up the side of the island, and she was looking clear over the roofs of the houses that crowded the base. There was nothing ahead of her but the sea and the sand. Birds wheeled overhead, tiny black specks against the blue of the sky.

  “Think again,” whispered Zadkiel, pointing up. Alice looked from him to the sky and back to him.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Look.”

  She did – and as she did, one of the little winged shapes banked sharply into the sun and there was a flash; the glint of bright light on metal.

  Angels.

  “And no-one can see them? I mean, they’re not... you’re not hiding them?” she asked, still craning her neck back. Zadkiel glanced up.

  “If I did that all the time, I’d never be able to do anything else. Besides, you’d be surprised. I think humans... people... think they’re gannets.”

  “Gannets.”

  “I did say you’d be surprised.”

  “What if someone did see? And realised. What then?”

  “Well, firstly there’s context. You’re standing in a place of miracles. Stranger things have happened here.”

  “And secondly?”

  “Secondly, who’s going to believe some tourist on a coach trip when he comes back from a leisurely lunch and says he saw an angel?”

  “Point taken.” Although, Alice thought, here of all places would be the place she’d believe it. “But why?” The question fell out before she could stop it, and Zadkiel, who had been about to lead them away, stopped in his tracks.

  “Why do we hide? You know that. We’re not here to be seen. We’re not here to be acknowledged. We’re here to make sure you – they – get a fair chance at doing the right thing. The chance they deserve.”

  “The Fallen don’t hide.”

  “And why should they? People don’t need any help to see their own cruelty. They know it’s there, and the Fallen play that to their advantage. They are all about forcing the issue; forcing the hand. We are something more.” He paused, his back still to them, and Alice caught Mallory’s eye. He winked at her, and tapped his chest – directly over his heart. Have faith, he mouthed. At least he was consistent.

  “This way,” said the Archangel, turning left out of the garden and leading them along the little street. It was narrow, and the cobbles were rough and uneven, scattered with sand. Alice eyed a dark stain that looked suspiciously like blood.

  “Leave it,” Mallory hissed into her ear. “If you poke, you’re going to find something, and then what do we do?”

  “I’m just not entirely sure I’m comfortable with all this.”

  “Good. You’re not totally soft in the head then, are you?”

  They followed Zadkiel down the street – which was seeming more and more like an afterthought, wedged between two sets of buildings and getting narrower by the step – and then turned abruptly left, bounding up three stone steps into a cemetery.

  “You know,” Alice sighed, “Some girls, they try and stay out of graveyards. I seem to spend most of my life in them. Can someone tell me how that happened?”

  Vin snorted as he passed her. “Says the one who’s been working in the Angel of Death’s funeral parlour.”

  “Did I ask for your input?”

  “Well, when you ask for ‘someone’ to...”

  “Alright. You can hush now.”

  “You did ask...” Vin shrugged, turning to find both Mallory and Zadkiel watching him. “What? She did!”

  Zadkiel looked at Mallory. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

  “I most certainly was not,” Mallory said through gritted teeth.

  Somewhat unexpectedly for a graveyard halfway up the side of an island fortress – but perhaps less so for one which attracted quite so much attention – the graves were rather pretty. Arranged in neat rows and separated by sandy paths, flowers and herbs had been planted on most of them, making a riot of colour against the weather-beaten stone and dark slate of the roofs. The far wall of the graveyard was smothered in greenery, with pink flowers erupting out of the shade. The whole space was surrounded by an intricate wrought-iron railing.

  It was the most peaceful place Alice had ever been. She closed her eyes, not caring for a moment what any of the others thought.

  The sound of more footsteps on the path made her open an eye. A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair and a long black habit was walking towards them, his hands folded together in front of him. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Mallory tense and reach for his guns, only relaxing when Zadkiel’s face broke into a smile. The monk bowed his head towards him, and then did the same in turn to each of the rest of them.

  “Welcome.” He spoke softly, clasping his hands around one of Zadkiel’s, who gestured to him with his free hand.

  “This is Brother Phillip, our Quartermaster. He belongs to the Order in the priory here, but we borrow him from time to time.” He clapped a hand on the monk’s back. “Our... other guests?”

  “...will be made comfortable. And secure.”

  “Of course they will. Thank you, Phillip.”

  “You’re most welcome, as always.” He was still smiling at them. He was waiting for something.

  Mallory’s grip on his guns tightened, and he suddenly shook his head. “Oh, no. Not on your life.”

  “Mallory...” Zadkiel frowned.

  “Nope.”

  “Mallory, hand over your weapons. Phillip will see to it that they are serviced. Surely they could do with it by now?”

  “No-one services these but me.” Mallory scowled back at the Archangel.

  So much for peaceful, thought Alice.

  “If I might?” Phillip took a step forward and held out his hand, palm up, towards Mallory. Reluctantly, Mallory handed him one of the Colts.

  Suddenly, Phillip’s hands were a blur, moving over the gun; pulling, twisting, pushing....

  He handed it back to Mallory. “The slider. Smoother?”

  Looking like he’d been handed a scorpion, Mallory took it back and drew the slider of the gun back. He blinked twice, then looked from it to Phillip. “Yes. It is.”

  “I had a life before I joined the brothers here.”

  “And that was... what, exactly?”

  “It was... less than legal.” Phillip smiled.

  “A monk who’s also a gunsmith. If only I’d known, I’d have come sooner,” Mallory laughed. But he still hadn’t handed over the guns.

  “I promise you, you can trust Phillip as you would us,” Zadkiel said, noticing his reluctance.

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Mallory muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  “I can order you to, if you’d prefer...?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Mallory drew out the other gun from the back of his belt, safetied both and placed them in Phillip’s hands. “You take care of those, you hear me?”

  “Of course.” The guns vanished into the shadows of Phillip’s sleeves. “We’ll have them back to you by dusk.”

  “No. No ‘we.’ Only you. Nobody else touches them. Not a
soul.”

  “I understand.” He nodded. “It will be my privilege.” And with that, the monk turned towards Zadkiel, leaving Mallory looking slightly bereft. “Will there be anything else? I can have one of the brothers...”

  “That won’t be necessary, Phillip. I’ll take care of them. And I’ll ask for the guard on the chapel to be doubled, if you want?”

  “That would be most appreciated, I think. Given the circumstances.” He smiled, and Alice realised he was much younger than she had taken him for at first: thirty at most. Apparently, hanging out with the angels aged you prematurely. Which reminded her: she’d spent last night on the floor of an abandoned chapel, and most of the day before that walking. She couldn’t even imagine what she looked like at that particular moment...

  The monk retreated, leaving them alone in the little graveyard, the crunch of his footsteps fading into the distance. There was a small chapel at the far end of the cemetery, tucked away in the shadiest corner. A flight of steps led up from the path to its door – Alice got the feeling steps were going to feature largely in her visit here... much as they had in hell, oddly enough. “Balance,” she said to herself, right before she saw the shadow beside the chapel move. Blinking, she stared at the patch of darkness. It didn’t move again, but there was something odd about it. It looked darker than the rest of the shadow. More solid.

  “Adriel?”

  There was no reply.

  “Alice? Is everything alright?” Mallory’s voice cut through her thoughts.

  “What? No, I’m fine. Just... you know. Thin air.”

  “If you say so.” Mallory peered towards the chapel, following the line of her gaze, but was distracted by Vin slapping his arm.

  “And you took the piss out of me being worried about my shades. You’re even worse.”

  “Yes, Vhnori. That’s because I’m handing over my weapons. The things which keep me alive. Not my accessories.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, mate. You might believe it if you say it enough times.”

  When Alice looked back to the corner of the wall, the shadows were flat and still, and whatever she thought she’d seen, it wasn’t there.