The Halo of Amaris

by Jade Brieanne

  Shen followed her gaze to a wooden platform erected at the front of the camp. There, Azeal stood holding a sheathed sword across his shoulders, looking out over the warriors with a dark and unstable glare.

  “That’s this Azeal guy?” Shen asked.

  “That’s him. I almost forgot what he looked like.”

  “Well, he looks crazy. I mean, call it delusional of me, but shouldn’t he be focused on his wife?”

  “His child as well, that much I agree on. But Azeal has a different plan…” She walked Shen down to the field, weaving in between the soldiers who stood face forward. Shen shuddered at the raw energy rolling off of them and saw a twisted bloodlust in their eyes.

  As they passed, Shen saw another figure, sitting alone atop one of the hills overlooking the training area. She was dressed as everyone else, the same boiled leather over an undyed linen shirt, and loose-fitting pants tucked into her boots.

  Her hair was dark as night, braided and pulled back in a knot away from her face. Brown skin soaked up the sun and her wide eyes gazed over the camp. The wrapped hilt of a sword poked over her shoulders, banded to her back by two leather straps cutting across her chest.

  His gaze swept down from the sword back to her face.

  Something about her seemed familiar. He tried for a closer look, but a ray of bright sunlight from behind a cloud obscured his view. He shook his head and threw the thought away, shifting his attention from the woman back to Azeal as his voice rang out from the front of the encampment.

  “We’ve all bled for Humans, and we’ve all bled for Angels. But what of us? Who is to bleed for us? Who is to come to our aid?” Azeal shouted, his anger blasting from him like flames.

  “No one! They talk of how they love us, but it is all lies. We are unwanted— the dirt and shame of The Above. No matter that we didn’t ask to be born, let alone tied to this disadvantageous fate. It doesn’t matter! I say we bleed for no one—for no man, for no angel—ever again. We take our own fates into our own hands, and so help me, every time they speak death unto one of us, we shall bring death to them!” Azeal slapped his chest with his fist three times.

  His soldiers repeated the gesture in unison before bellowing out a stout cheer of “Cairenn! Cairenn! Cairenn!”

  “Now we wait.” Pythia Del spoke quietly, disappearing under the shade of a tree near the front of the encampment. Shen followed suit.

  “He’s really crazy.”

  Pythia Del smiled. “A trait you are well acquainted with…”

  Shen rolled his eyes and turned away from her. Azeal stared right at him, right through him, and Shen couldn’t move. Azeal was a short man. He had a flat, stubby nose, a sturdy jaw line, and long, black hair that swept down his back.

  His skin was much like everyone else’s, tanned and firm. He walked like something heavy hung between his legs—probably his ego. His eyes, green and deep-set, were what caused a wash of something over Shen. He could feel it; the anger, the betrayal, the grief, and the feelings mirrored in his own heart. In that moment, Azeal didn’t look so insane. He looked…human.

  Hours passed in a blink. Torches lit the perimeter of the encampment, casting everyone in an orange glow. Some of Azeal’s soldiers milled around, waiting, while others occupied their time sparring or cleaning their weapons. As the sun dropped below the hills, Pythia Del pointed toward the open field again, to Shemhazi, the Watcher from Au Courant. His face was blank as he marched up the long dirt road toward them.

  “What’s happening?” Shen asked as he stood. Pythia Del joined him at his side, but kept silent.

  Azeal broke away from the camp the moment he saw his father, reaching him in only a matter of seconds. Grabbing the older man by the shoulders, Azeal searched for an answer in his father’s eyes. Shemhazi said nothing, but shook his head as he placed the scroll in Azeal’s hands. With a frown, Azeal uncurled the paper and read over the words slowly.

  “No.”

  “I tried. I tried so hard, my son, but they would not listen to me. I’m so sorry.” Azeal buckled and his knees hit the dirt. The scrolled tumbled from his hands.

  His shoulders trembled as he fell forward, his fist pounding the dirt. Shemhazi let him grieve for a moment before he picked him up from the ground and wiped his tears away. He gripped the back of his son’s neck and brought him forward until their foreheads touched. “You will not be weak. Not now.”

  Azeal inhaled deeply and nodded. He turned toward his soldiers with eyes as hard as granite. “They have spoken death upon us. Now we shall answer in kind,” he said softly into the quiet.

  A monstrous roar erupted across the camp as Azeal’s men pounded the ends of their spears on the ground.

  Shen froze as something took over his body. He tried to move forward, but the world faded away and it was just him and Pythia Del in inky darkness.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “What…what happened?! Take me back! They were going to—”

  “Die,” Pythia Del said, her voice echoing in the dark.

  The way she said it jarred Shen to his bones.

  “Azeal led two hundred soldiers to their death that night. He was overemotional and rash and it cost him his life. The rebellion was able to take down a few Root Watchers, though. Shamsiel was one of them.”

  Shen was shocked. “You can kill an angel?”

  “Nothing born of God is immortal. Everything can and will die. You just have to know how.”

  “Why am I being shown this?”

  “Azeal’s actions sparked a war that lasted almost a century. It was the biggest civil war ever seen in Caeli. We needed you to see that, in order for you to understand why Lucan sees so much in you. Although I’m apt to believe Lucan sees what he wants…”

  Pythia Del’s lips were on his again before he could digest that. The pain was sudden, but he was expecting it this time, so he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them he was sitting in Pythia Del’s throne room.

  Pythia Del hopped off his lap and walked back to her seat at the top of the stairs. “That,” she said as she picked up the wine glass at her feet and took a sip, “was the easy part.”

  “Easy?” Shen barked. “You call that easy?”

  “If I say it’s easy, then it’s easy.”

  Lucan stood. “Time to go.”

  Shen grabbed his head. It was still pulsing from Pythia Del’s enchanting version of reminiscing. “Just stop for a moment and let me think.”

  Lucan glared at him. “You’re not good at thinking. Let’s go. People are waiting on us.”

  Shen grunted as he was hauled up from his cushion and pushed up the flight of stairs that led to Pythia’s golden throne. Pythia Del trailed behind them at an unhurried pace, still sipping on her wine.

  They walked the entire length of a long hallway, only to stop in front of a large steel vault door. Nudging him forward, Lucan nodded for Shen to open the door. The wheel turned with a heavy creak and a loud thud, and as the door crept open, Shen was greeted with pitch black darkness. He eased a foot through the doorway, prepared to take a step, and a cool blast of air rushed past his face.

  “You might want to watch your step. It’s a long way down.” One of Lucan’s hands dropped heavily onto Shen’s shoulder as Lucan reached overhead and pulled a beaded metal cord, grinning as the small lights dangling from the rocks above them struggled to fill the space with light. Shen snatched his foot back as he looked down the narrow, crumbling staircase that ran along the wall on one side and the empty, bottomless abyss on the other. The only thing keeping Shen from falling was a thin and flimsy metal rail.

  Shen really didn’t like Lucan.

  “I’d keep my hand away from that rail, too. Trust the wall,” Lucan instructed as he brushed past Shen and headed down the stairs.

  The descent was just as frightening as Shen imagined it would be. The space was drafty and the wind howled as it whipped around them. The air was dank, with a wet smell, and Shen wondered what was down there that could p
ossibly be causing such a horrible stench. When they hit the final step and Lucan passed through the ragged stone opening of a tunnel, Shen’s repulsion and fear melted into awe.

  From the mouth of opening, the tunnel stretched out as far as Shen could see in the low light, twisting and bending at slight angles. The walls were covered in white-glazed brick, and as Lucan guided him further, Shen could see doors and windows that led deeper into the walls. “What is this place?”

  “These tunnels were built during the Tong Wars in the nineteenth century. Although you aren’t on the friendliest terms with them, Pythia Del is pretty cushy with the current occupant, Hip Sing Gung Wui leader—”

  “Feilong,” Shen growled.

  Pythia Del face lit up like a child’s. “Men and your wars. You’re such ridiculous creatures. Because of the…animosity between you two, I’ve established a temporary truce. Isn’t that great news?”

  “Swell,” Shen replied dryly.

  Pythia Del urged him forward with a push to the small of his back and Shen followed Lucan in silence until they approached another door.

  “I implore you to remember my previous suggestion of not pissing people off. I’m sure you’ve heard of Feilong’s temper,” Lucan cautioned.

  Shen dismissed Lucan’s threat with a wave of his hand.

  Lucan knocked once on the door, and a moment passed before the door breezed open on a cavernous, drafty stone room. In the middle of the room was a long table that looked as though it had been carved out of a single, large slab of wood. Centered down its entire length was a long line of lit candles, the wax melting onto the table’s surface.

  “Who the hell is that?” echoed from somewhere in the room, the deep voice sounding annoyed. More candles flared up in a rush, casting the entire stone room in a warm light.

  A woman with a round face and long, flowing red hair leaned forward in her seat to look at Shen. “Whoever he is, he’s cute. He’s mine!”

  A woman beside her, with brown, wavy hair shaved on one side, shoved the first woman. “You can’t, Sheeda! I was about to claim him.”

  Seated around the table was a mixed group of people, all of them dressed in thick clothing to protect them from the cooler air in the tunnels. The floor was covered in a layer of water, reflecting everything above it like a giant mirror. Guards were stationed at the rear of the room, so far away that they were almost swallowed by the darkness. There were two servants serving liquor from a buffet against a wall.

  “Dalia, stop whining, he isn’t a piece of meat…” said a woman with an apple- shaped face framed by a short, purple-red bob that stopped right at her chin. “Yet.” She grinned at Shen like she had a secret. It scared him. “You want to sit by me? I won’t hurt you…unless you’re into that.”

  “Oh, please. Give it a break, JiJi.” The voice of dissent came from a lanky young man with small, expressive eyes. Those eyes shifted between Shen and the woman, his brows hitched up nearly to his hairline and his lip curled in distaste. “You don’t even know who he is. What are you going to do when we have to send him back in pieces? Cry?”

  Shen laughed, weakly. “He’s joking, right?”

  “No one is talking to you, Solar,” JiJi said, ignoring Shen.

  “No one is talking to you, Solar,” Solar parroted, rolling his eyes. “Well, yeah, too bad, because in this country I’m granted this thing called freedom of speak. So there.”

  “It’s freedom of speech, you idiot.”

  A few seats down from the squabbling group, a man with a shock of bright blond hair motioned toward Shen with his eyes. “Who’s this wang ba?”

  Solar pitched his head back and laughed loudly.

  Pythia Del sauntered across the room and took a seat at the head of the table. “You don’t recognize him,” she chided. “You’d think enemies would recognize each other. This just so happens to be Shen Park, or as you know him…Rabbit.” She leaned back in the carved chair.

  All heads at the long table swung toward Shen in disbelief. Feilong glared at him, feet to head, before throwing back a shot of dark liquor. “And so it begins,” he said with a dangerous edge.

  “That’s Shen? The asshole survived? This is why I was dragged out of my house in the middle of the night?” asked another man, raising an eyebrow. He had a stiffened Mohawk and his eyes were lined with red kohl. “He looks like a loser. What were you thinking, Lucan?”

  “Well, bravo to you, Kevin. I’m gone for a few months and you grow balls big enough to question me,” Lucan spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Kevin looked away and tongued his cheek but said nothing more. Lucan swung his gaze to the others, and no one responded to the silent threat. “We’ve got work to do.” Lucan rounded the table, the floor reflecting his every step like a mirror. “Shen, sit.”

  Shen meandered over with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a reminder he wasn't a pushover, and took a seat at the other end of the table, away from Lucan. He yawned lazily and returned all of the suspicious glares with a look of indifference.

  Solar’s eyes crinkled as he looked from Pythia Del to Lucan. “Has Pythia let him have a sniff of the old vapors, yet? Hot dog! I bet she did!” He stood up and pointed at Shen. “How was the trip? See anything awesome?”

  “Solar, can’t you keep your mouth closed for even a second?” Lucan asked dryly.

  Solar grinned and rubbed his chin. “No.” He shook his head and sat back. “Not really.”

  “Do you understand what you saw?” Lucan dismissed Solar with a sniff and looked at Shen, who sat in silent contemplation before answering.

  “I’m aware, as in I saw something, but that’s about it.”

  Lucan nodded. “The war Pythia Del spoke of was a direct result of The Fallen’s inability to protect their own, and the Mutare’s reluctance to stand up against what was wrong. How can they protect humankind if they can’t protect their own?”

  Shen shrugged and leaned away from Lucan. “And?”

  “Did you recognize any of the faces?” Lucan glanced at Shen. He didn’t wait for an answer, pointing to the book he’d dragged with him. “What you attempted to read—poorly might I add—was a set of signs written eons ago. These signs were passed down from an unknown archangel through a spirit medium named Edward Kelly to John Dee, an astrologer who transcribed the words into books for human eyes.” Lucan continued with a grim frown. “Do you know what purpose is? Fate?”

  Shen matched his frown. “Every person on earth asks that same question. There isn’t an answer; you make your life what you want it.”

  A blonde woman at the far end of the table snorted, and Dalia slapped her shoulder in admonishment. “Don’t laugh, Clara!”

  Shen glared at her. “Who the hell are you people, anyway?” he snapped.

  “Children of Shemhazi. The Fallen of Azeal.” Kevin tilted his head back and stared at the wet, dripping ceiling as he spoke. “We are The Eleven,” he said simply, as if it were common knowledge.

  “Oh, okay,” Shen commented coolly. “That cleared everything up.”

  Pythia Del threw a particularly catty laugh his way from the head of the table. “Regardless of whether this is ‘fate’,” and she looked at Lucan pointedly, “or if you were in the right place at the right time, met the right person and it led to all of this, you just saw everything you needed to know about why we brought you here.”

  Shen scrunched his brows. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Sheeda rolled her eyes and crossed her hands across her chest, clearly annoyed. “You’re going to help us get home. That’s the only reason you are here. To—” She turned to Lucan. “You didn’t explain anything? Not even that?”

  “No, I wanted him to see first,” he pointed out. Sighing, he turned to Shen. “As Kevin stated, we are The Eleven, descendants of The Fallen and what’s left of Shemhazi’s faction. After Shemhazi’s War, our group decided to leave to Earth instead of accepting being disposed of, wanting nothing to do with a place that would order the murder of one o
f our—”

  “Well,” Shen drawled, interrupting Lucan. “I wouldn’t call it murder, actually. That Cairenn woman was going to die anyway, right? And with Azeal, I mean, I can see where the guy was coming from. I would have done the same thing, but didn’t he attack first? That’s not murder that’s just getting your ass…” His words trailed off when he looked up and saw a room full of angry, pointed glares, “kicked,” he finished meekly.

  “But,” Lucan continued, “we didn’t step down to be submissive or complacent, nor do we accept their judgment. Law before the war was familial succession, a practice they have since discontinued, so Azeal would have inherited control of The Fallen after Shemhazi, and his son after him. We plan on taking back what is rightfully ours.”

  He stopped to point at Shen. “I believe that you are the first step in making that happen. You’re an anomaly that I plan on capitalizing.”

  Shen was unconcerned. “Okay, look. I’m not with this absurd convoluted close-encounter-with-the-third-kind deal you people got going on, and while I guess I understand the cause, I didn’t drag myself down here to be some sort of vigilante for angelic justice. You’re going to have to find you another person disillusioned enough to do what you want. Got me?”

  Shen slid back hard from the table, toppling his chair. It knocked loudly in the room, rippling the water covering the floor. He winced internally and cursed under his breath when their eyes fell on him. It was like being backed into a corner by a pack of feral dogs. Still, he kept his face blank and started to walk away.

  “Aren’t you interested in why—despite your love for her—you developed this unquenchable thirst to kill her? How you tell yourself that it’s justified?”

  Shen shook his head to block the words Lucan threw at him like knives, each question cutting deeper than the one before it. Shen took another step and another, his feet taking him farther away from the table. He stopped abruptly, fingernails digging into his palms.

  “You know,” he whispered as he stared at his image in the mirror of the floor. “Everyone thinks I’m a monster for trying to kill her. And maybe I am, maybe I’m so screwed up and broken that I wanted that.” Shen’s lip curled in icy contempt. “I just want her to hurt like she hurt me.”