Airs & Graces: The Angel's Grace Trilogy Book I

by A. J. Downey

  Dinner was kind of a disaster after that. No one spoke. No one would even really look at each other, and the food, while it looked good, tasted like cardboard – at least to me. I was grateful when Gabriel stood to take me back up to my room.

  “Tab’s good at survival, Honey. Just try to keep that in mind, okay?” she said and leaned in and kissed my cheek. I jerked back and fought down some tears, instead relying on some of my smartass to get through the next few seconds without bawling.

  “Seriously, Gabriel? Now? You classless bastard,” I said, mock dispassionately, and she laughed.

  “God, I like you, Cupcake! You’re a riot,” she said and left me at my door. I opened it and went in, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed. I froze at its side, though. Sitting in the center of the neatly made crimson coverlet was a shiny metal canteen.

  I looked up, back towards the door and then back around to the bed. It was still there. I edged closer, picking it up between my hands…

  “Something better… Does this mean we’re both okay?” I whispered, but there was no answer. Of course there wouldn’t be, but I had a profound sense that this was exactly what it meant. That we were both okay, and that we would survive… something better waited for us. Both of us. Because wasn’t that what I had prayed for? More specifically, what struck me, was who I had sent that particular prayer to.

  “Thank you, God…” I breathed and hugged the canteen to my chest. “Thank you, God.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tabbris

  I’d been dragged to Hell before. I didn’t intend it to go quite the same way this time. I was pulled into a colossal cavern – underground, full of flowing rivers of lava, with enough room for the giant to maneuver. Hell’s geography has a lot of variety, but I suspect someone wanted me to have the classic image of the pits, to leave absolutely no question where I’d ended up. As if I could ever be at all uncertain. Far worse than the giant’s grip, the oppressive heat, the stinging smoke, the smell, or the presence of the Grigori was the absolute certainty of being outside of God’s Grace. I could feel the emptiness creeping into me, with the accompanying despair and depression. I fought them off and focused on the task at hand.

  My sword arm was mostly pinned, but I used what wiggle room I could manage to change the angle of my sword, then pushed while extending the radiance – enlarging the blade until it plunged deep into one huge finger. The hand reflexively opened, but instead of dropping, I pulled myself up onto the Nephil’s wrist, and started running up his arm.

  He swatted at me with the other hand, but I managed to pull up just short and avoided it, then slashed at one finger, cutting deep into it. When the hand pulled away, I continued running, leaping, and climbing in turns, always just barely avoiding more swats and clumsy grabs, until I was pulling myself up onto his shoulder. By this time, some of the Grigori had noticed the problem and were flying up to help.

  Running out of time, I thrust my sword into the giant’s neck as deep as I could, and then channeled a smiting through the blade. What Gabriel had done to the frat house’s TV and wall, I did here. What started as a nasty pin-prick to the giant turned into an explosion, nearly separating his head from his body.

  The giant staggered, heavy footsteps crushing some of the hellhounds and a couple of the Fallen, while flailing arms batted more of the Fallen out of the air. I held on while he staggered like, well, a chicken with its head cut off, trampling my enemies and threatening to fall on more. Thoughts of pursuing me turned to thoughts of evasive maneuvers, as Grigori and others scattered and sought cover.

  After a few near things, the body began to fall backwards. Spotting a cave mouth, lined with teeth-like stalactites and stalagmites in the wall, I timed my jump off the giant’s shoulder at the nearest point. I couldn’t fly, thanks to the anchoring, but in spreading my wings, I managed to add a few more feet to the leap by gliding. I barely caught onto the stone lip. I pulled myself up and into the cave, only just getting to safety when the whole room shook with the impact of the fall, and portions of the roof started to cave in. I held on as best I could in the midst of the small earthquake. In all, from the sounds and what little I dared look out to see, I was faring much better than the denizens of the open cavern. Underground like this, even a small quake could be disastrous, well beyond the fall of the Nephil, which had caused them enough problems.

  I took a better look once the shaking stopped, and it became clear that the cave in which I’d sheltered wasn’t going to give way. The giant had shattered the floor, and large portions of the cracked stone and anything on them were sinking into the lava. Everyone who wasn’t trapped ran for the exits. Even those who would survive a lava bath just fine, including the majority of those below, would still find it unpleasant. Others sought to try to rescue those stuck under the giant, if they could be rescued, while the massive body sank into the molten rock. All in all, I couldn’t have hoped for a better re-entrance.

  As soon as I verified that there were no signs anyone had seen where I had gone – and particularly that no one was pursuing me just yet – I took off deeper into the cave. Eventually, I’d need to find my way around. I was in unfamiliar territory, and any turn or twist could be a dead end.

  What Lucifer had said about allowing the Archangels to come and rescue me before rang at least somewhat true. I knew that he was afraid of Michael and that much of his planning had to do with setting up a situation where he’d never have to face the Archangel on anything like even terms again, so part of it was probably hesitance to challenge him as well. Still, this was his home and realm, and I doubted that Michael and the others were going to manage another grand rescue. In time, for the keys, they’d try to figure something out, and Michael might even want to go charging in – but it wouldn’t work this time. Even if it did, I didn’t intend to be in some torture chamber. If I were, by that point, Hell would have the keys.

  No, I was on my own for now. I was alone in Hell, and I had the keys that could launch Judgment Day. I needed to keep myself out of the hands of Lucifer, the Grigori, and anyone and everyone else here, and more importantly, keep the keys safe. I had no help, but I also didn’t need to slow down for rest, or to protect anyone. Adelaide was safe – or at least I hoped she would be. Michael would have been upset, but Gabriel had seemed to have a change of heart, and Raphael, while he followed orders, was a healer, not one to be needlessly cruel – or to stomach needless killing if the orders didn’t come from above. Yes, she’d be safe. I had to convince myself of that much.

  I headed deeper into the caves, doing my best to memorize its twists and turns, while always trying to make my way higher up. If I was on my own, then I eventually needed to come up with an escape plan, or at least to make sure if there was a plan, I was set to meet it halfway.

  Eventually, I felt that I’d finally covered enough ground to set camp to take stock of my situation. I also wanted to start finding some defensible locations, in case. Only then did I hear it: Adelaide’s voice. Locked away like this, prayers were hard to hear, but this one was directed to me. “Please be safe.” Those words were the clearest part. Even the rest, unclear as it was, was everything I needed. Her prayers would help me, and more importantly, locked away from God’s sight, deep in the pits, they gave me hope. Where before, I had to trust, now I knew she was alive, safe, and still thinking of me.

  This prayer was brief, but it was something to cling to. And I swore that somehow, I’d find my way back to her, even if I had to storm the Gates of Hell from the inside.

  Glossary

  Angel: a spiritual being and servant of God, from the word for ‘messenger’

  Archangel: a higher-ranking Angel

  Asbeel: Fallen Angel of the Grigori whose name means ‘God has forsaken.’

  Demon: a lesser supernatural being and denizens of Hell, from a different word for ‘messenger.’

  Fallen Angel: a spiritual being who rebelled against the Grace of God

  Gadreel: Fa
llen Angel of the Grigori.

  Gabriel: Archangel whose name means ‘hero of God.’ Primary divine messenger.

  Grace: a gift bestowed by God. Also the essence of an Angel.

  Grigori: ‘The Watchers,’ a group of Fallen Angels, fathers of the Nephilim.

  Hadad: an ancient Middle Eastern storm god, worshipped under the title Ba’al.

  Iaoel: Angel of Visions

  Kasdaye: a Fallen Angel of the Grigori

  Lot: the Biblical patriarch Abraham’s nephew, who immigrated to the city of Sodom.

  Michael: Archangel whose name means ‘who is as God.’ General of the heavenly host.

  Nephilim (singular Nephil): Biblical giants, offspring of the Grigori with human women.

  Penemue: Fallen Angel of the Grigori

  Rahab: Fallen Angel whose name means ‘violence.’

  Raphael: Archangel whose name means ‘the shining one who heals.’

  Samyaza: a General of the Fallen Angels

  Sodom and Gomorrah: City-states in ancient Canaan infamous for their callous wickedness.

  Tabbris: Angel of Free Will

  Uriel: Archangel whose name means ‘God is my light.’

  Yequon: Fallen Angel of the Grigori

  [Excerpted from the letters of Gregory Conan Watts to his fiancee]

  …While they were at that, Miss Bowe had found herself having drawn a great deal of attention from our assailants, having ruined the first shot. Somehow she had found a second blade from the table, and thus was fighting at least three men, perhaps more, though I could not be sure, armed with a bodice knife and a steak knife. Despite this poor armament, she was holding her own, though her breath was labored, and she could barely move — and certainly not lunge into her efforts — due to her own dresses and bindings.

  The table she had knocked over guarded her back, with Julietta Penn remaining behind her and the table for cover. Our gypsy woman meanwhile had leaned herself across the table and was desperately sawing through the threads of Samantha’s bodice with another steak knife, that Sam might fight and breathe. It came free at last, and Samantha lunged forward in her far-less-restrictive undershirts, surprising the men who thought they had her pinned down.

  I do not know if she dispatched them or simply fought past them, for even as the others were fighting for our representatives here, she headed for the new royals of France, the original targets of the assassination attempt, and there found their guardsmen fighting a desperate battle. I imagine they were quite surprised to find a woman armed with a pair of mismatched knives, in a torn dress and her undershirts, fighting on their behalf. She has even said since that they at first attacked her themselves, but she convinced them of her good will when she felled a gunman coming at them by throwing her steak knife. She then re-armed herself by groping about on the nearest table for further silverware while fighting off another assassin using the bodice knife she’d borrowed from Miss Penn.

  Somewhere in the chaos I lost track of Giovanni Franzini and assumed he’d crawled under a table or under some rock to hide. He quite surprised me later, when we learned he’d run down two of the assassins who had attempted to flee in the chaos and felled both, albeit from behind as they were running.

  I could not see all of it, but by the end as we regathered, I would swear Samantha had gone through at least two table settings, but had held onto Miss Penn’s knife. She was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, at least, and looked a wreck, her hat hanging from one side of her head, still held to one now-loosed braid by a single hatpin. She was decent only by the simplest definition, but for all of it, she looked quite pleased with herself.

  Our small group was once more gathering, soon to be helping in a call for order. We would assist in patrolling the grounds all night, trying to make sure that we had all of the assassins and that no one attempted to flee before they might be questioned. First, however, Miss Bowe asked, somewhat too loudly, of Sir James, “That was fun; do all your parties end like this?”

  This is what drew the final scandal, which has hit the rumor mills, I understand. Overhearing our American misfit, the Queen of France fainted.

  With love, always,

  Gregory Conan Watts

  Chapter 1

  The ivy of despair had taken root in my chest months ago. There was nothing specific that had happened, that I can remember, that brought on my depression. I didn’t lose my job, or a boyfriend, no one had died, still, it had taken root within me somehow, and as the days grew shorter and the rains had come the vines had grown, constricting my heart within my chest, blocking out all light and anything that was good, and warm, and comforting. Things I had once taken great pleasure in doing, the restoration work I did at the museum, painting, the theater… all of it suddenly seemed dull and I just didn’t know what to do with myself.

  Some of my acquaintances had stopped calling, I call them acquaintances rather than friends because true friends wouldn’t give up on someone simply because they were feeling blue, even if that blue period lasted longer than a few days or weeks… would they? No. I don’t think so. Roxanne, my oldest and longest friend, my best friend, had not given up on me. She’d said to me: “Gracelyn, I’m here for you. No matter what, you just call me.” I had smiled and we had hugged but I didn’t know how to quantify what it was that I was feeling.

  I was sad, all the time, but I didn’t know why I was sad. I hurt for no reason, cried for no reason, and I was tired all the time for no reason. I had finally gone to my doctor who had diagnosed me with depression. She’d given me pills, which I dutifully took, but they didn’t help. I felt lost and adrift and therapy wasn’t an option, not only was it not covered by my medical plan, you had to have a problem to work the problem out, didn’t you?

  The heels of my boots clicked sharply against the pavement as I made my way home to my apartment. The January wind bit along the exposed skin of my face and I scrunched down further into the collar of my black winter pea coat.

  I had no problems, I grew up in a loving home, raised by my grandparents after my parents had passed in a bad car accident… which is something I had come to grips with a very long time ago. While I had not been popular in school growing up, I hadn’t been unpopular. I’d had friends, gone to college, gotten my Masters in Science of Historic Preservation and was certified by The Academy of Certified Archivists and was working on a dream project preserving historical artifacts from an archeological dig. I mean what was more exciting than preserving artifacts from a Viking raid in Scotland?

  I turned and clacked up the steps to my building and let myself in. I lived in a modest high rise apartment in a relatively quiet neighborhood… well as quiet as any neighborhood in New York could be. It was relatively close to the museum I worked out of, only two subway stops away. I could walk if I wanted to most days and I did, the life as an academic isn’t exactly an active one so I walked to and from work and ran two or three times a week to stay in shape. It was getting harder and harder to resist the call of the subway though as all the joy in my life slowly leeched away worse than the color out of a painting left too long in the sun.

  I unlocked my apartment door and closed it heavily behind me, locking the deadbolt and leaning against its worn surface. I dropped my purse and tote bag in the entryway and my keys into their dish on the little hall table I kept near the door. I hung my coat and scarf on the back of the door and before I did anything, unzipped my riding style boots from knee to ankle and toed them off.

  “I’m home.” I called to no one in particular. I lived alone. Hence why it didn’t really matter if I left all my stuff in front of the door. I padded in my tights clad feet to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then closed it with a groan. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t hungry. I used to enjoy cooking for myself but not since the black ivy of my depression started choking the life out of me last year. I went into my bedroom and undressed, hanging my black blouse, and deep green skirt, and jacket back in their places.

  I peeled out of my tights an
d underwear after casually flipping my bra into the dirty laundry basket. The tangle of undergarments sulked on the top of the pile and I let them as I padded across the hall into my bathroom. I let the shower heat up, pulled some towels out of the linen cupboard and climbed in, letting the hot water beat my tense shoulders into some semblance of submission.

  Today had been meeting after meeting with the walking wallets that were funding our project. I hated dealing with the suits with a passion, my time was better spent in the lab with the tools of my trade, brushing dirt away, recording details and small discoveries about whatever artifact happened to find its way to my worktable. My day had been especially frustrating due to the fact that what currently occupied my worktable was the hilt and a good third or more of a genuine Viking blade, circa the tenth century. That’s right, the tenth century… you know it gets exciting for a history nerd like me when you start dropping into the lowest double digits before the word century.

  I plucked the hair band off the end of the long golden braid hanging over my right shoulder and worked the strands of my dishwater blonde hair out of their thick rope. The water against my scalp felt good, but maddeningly I remained numb and indifferent, which frustrated me. I scrubbed my hands over my face and stuck it in the shower spray, huffing out a sigh. It was late, I was tired and all I wanted was my bed so I decided to make some seriously quick work of this shower, lathering my hair and rinsing it quickly, I skipped the conditioner and used my honey and milk body wash equally as quickly in a quick head to toe lather with my bath poof. I rinsed well and shut off the water, reaching for a towel.

  The storm of a meltdown was brewing, I could feel it in my chest, and behind my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want to be alone and yet I couldn’t help it, the tide of emotion was rising and I was about to be swamped. I wrapped the regular sized bath towel around my hair and twisted, straightening up and flopping it back turban style on my head. I used the bath sheet to dry my body, starting with my face before finally wrapping it around myself twice below my arm pits and tucking the corner tight so it wouldn’t slide off.