Seraphs by Faith Hunter
I poured a bowl of cool water over the dark green aventurine I had previously excised and set it aside. The due date for the necklace of stone leaves was close. I could warm the pieces slowly, starting with cool water and adding warmer water to it several times, and it would be fine until the room warmed above freezing.
Until then, I was at loose ends and feeling edgy. I didn’t want to put stock away or rearrange the bins that needed attention. I didn’t want to sweep or clean. My movements were erratic, and my mouth was a tight line of hurt and anger. I ought to stop and look at what I was really feeling before I hurt myself or broke something.
But I refused to think about the night before. Refused to think about his mouth on that girl’s fingers. And more importantly, I would not cry over him. Never. Never again.
I took a shuddering breath and forced the hurt into a deep, dark place inside me. It was getting full, that region of my heart where I shoved all the stuff I didn’t want to look at. I breathed deeply, trying to find a peaceful place within myself. I wasn’t sure one existed anymore. My hands quivered with inaction, my heart with a painful rhythm, and my eyes burned like brands. But as I forced long, steady breaths, my muscles relaxed, my breathing evened out, and the threatening tears dried into a hot, scalding mass in my chest.
Firmly, I buried my ex-husband and my love for him. I truly had cried my last tear over Lucas. I would not grieve for him, or for my dead marriage, again. I would not look at that part of my life. Instead, I pulled the three wild-mage stones from the time of the first neomages off my amulet necklace and inspected them.
At my trial, one of the mage-stones had glowed—yet I had never filled it with power. It should have been as dead as weather-beaten rock, holding potential, but nothing more. I held it up to the light; a sapphire with lots of dark inclusions, a poor-quality stone carved in the shape of a fat owl. It didn’t look any different from my other amulets, but it had to be. I thought the owl might have worked on, and with, my mind to allow improved psychic reactions. During the trial, when I tried blending the mind-skim and the sight into one, I hadn’t been as nauseated as before. In hindsight, I was pretty sure the amulet had started glowing about then, and had somehow facilitated blending the two gifts. Maybe it had something to do with the otherness as well, that odd sensation that flooded me with the blending.
Centering myself, I opened both sight and a skim. The world whirled drunkenly around me, and I gripped the edge of the workbench to steady myself. The sapphire nugget was glowing, a sunlike glare I blinked away. Mentally, I reached out and touched the otherness. It felt bubblelike, solid and ephemeral, like a cell wall of energy enclosing, yet not binding, me. Testing, I hooked a thought in it and tugged.
Suddenly I was on the other side of . . . something, standing beside a river glowing like lava. In a quick glance I saw humps and lumps, like boulders in the lava flow, and sparkles and flares, like tiny explosions. I turned to step back, but there was no doorway, no opening, just the wide, endless plane. I heaved a fear-filled breath and felt myself shift, hard. I landed back in the workroom, my fingers cutting into the bench top, holding me in place.
“Tears of Taharial,” I muttered coarsely. That had sucked Habbiel’s pearly toes. I wouldn’t be trying that again anytime soon.
When I caught my breath, I inspected the second wild mage-stone. It was a citrine nugget; the sparkling, translucent, soft yellow gem was shaped like a pear with a nub of a stem and a small leaf carved at the top. The final wild-mage stone was a green zoisite carved like a cherry. A tiny ruby inclusion looked like a gemstone worm in the matrix of the zoisite.
I placed the wild amulets on the workbench, adding the two extinguished Minor Flames. They were unlike anything I had seen before. Their color had changed overnight from smoky quartz to the color and opacity of peach moonstone. Today they were malleable, like putty, and warm, slightly warmer than my body temperature. In mage-sight, they had a dim glow, like a candle through a distant window in a night of dense fog. Experimentally, I touched a Flame to each of the wild-amulets. Nothing happened, not even in mage-sight.
From the frozen stockroom I carried one of the metal ammo boxes of amethyst. It still looked dead, unchanged from the time on the Trine when I had pulled its energies to me and drained it totally. Except for the cobra, some small part of me reminded. Unlike normal stone, it wouldn’t take a recharge, meaning it didn’t accept the restoration of creation energies like ordinary stone. I had tried to fill it once before, and the energies I could bring from the heart of the earth bounced right off. It really was dead stone. Yet, there was that danged cobra and the purple mist I had breathed.
I added water to the warming aventurine and returned to the workbench. It was harder than normal to calm my heartbeat and breathing, a current of anger still spiking through me at the thought of Lucas. But I didn’t want to go messing with unknown energies while ticked off, so I made a space and hopped onto the workbench. I sat, my legs curled, and opened a portable charmed circle. I probably should have gone out back, away from people, but I wasn’t going to try anything tricky. I just wanted a quick look-see into the stones.
I never found a peaceful, slow heart rate, but I did relax. When I had calmed myself, and my own temperature had cooled from grief and anger to merely unhappy, I began inspecting all the stones in mage-sight. I placed the sapphire in close proximity to one of the Flames, and nothing happened. I tried the amethyst with the sapphire. I tried several combinations of Flame with the visa, with my prime ring, and with the sapphire. Nothing.
But when I tried the extinguished Flame with the amethyst, both sparked. It was just a flash of light, like a jolt of recognition, but it was there. Nothing happened when I added the sapphire or the zoisite. But when I brought the pear-shaped citrine nugget close to the amethyst and the Flame, there was instant heat, and the Flame began to glow. I separated the stones and sat there on the workbench, staring at them.
Carefully, I brought all three stones close again, holding a sliver of amethyst and the citrine wild-stone to a Flame. All three sparked again, and in the amethyst I saw eyes, eyes, eyes. I fell into the stone, deep into the matrix. Eyes watched me, blinking, entreating. It was as if I were part of the stone, part of the crystalline strength, as if it and I were made of lavender eyes. Through the eyes I saw the wheels. Amethyst’s wheels. Interlocking rings of amethyst stone, glowing with life and power, similar to creation energy, yet subtly different. The size of the purple stone was lost with nothing to measure it by, but I remembered the size—long as a football field, nearly as wide, but with the gyroscope-like rings folded flat, it looked narrow, a faceted cabochon of eyes. Millions of them. The golden navcone—the navigation nosecone—was seated firmly and securely against the stone. And it was tethered with a glowing green rope that vanished out of sight. A living ship of the High Host.
In my vision, the wheels were singing to me, a wonderful, placid melody, a gentle lullaby. In the notes were words. “We are nearly healed, little mage. Nearly healed. Soon to be released from time, time, time. Help us save our Mistress. Promise us this. To save our Amethyst. Promise us. Promise us. Soon, soon, soon,” they—it—the ship caroled.
The vision faded though the soft singing continued. I returned to myself for an instant, seeing my hands holding three rocks, before plunging again into the stone, deeper inside where the light shimmered and glistened, rebounding through the crystal amethyst heart. It was dark and cold here, the song far away, a distant wind through standing stones.
I saw Amethyst and Zadkiel trapped underground. They looked at me, shocked. Zadkiel reached up to where I hovered, high over his head, yet deep in the Trine. His hand passed through me, a ghostly sensation. The seraph was badly burned. His bones showed through blackened flesh. Dragonets twined around him, fangs hooked into him, siphoning off his lifeblood. His sword dragged in the web, coated with their gore.
As I watched, he hacked, cleaving one in two. Yet it clotted over with a mucoid, gelatinous subst
Below him, still trapped in the crimson strands of her cell, wrapped in the chains that seared her, was the cherub, Amethyst. She was real. I hadn’t been entirely certain. The cherub was a bizarre being, her entire body feathered in pale lavender, a mishmash of body parts, demi-wings, hands, feet, breasts, all secured by reddish-black chains that burned into her flesh. Every part of her body was covered with eyes, eyes shackled in demon-iron chains.
I remembered the scripture. “And every one had four faces: the first face was the face of a cherub, and the second face was the face of a human, and the third the face of a lion, and the fourth the face of an eagle . . . and their whole body, and their backs, and their hands, and their wings, and the wheels, were full of eyes round about. . . .”
She stared at me, her human face filled with hope. A light came from somewhere, bright as the heart of the sun. It burned my eyes and I closed them against the pain. Yet I could hear her crooning. “Help me. Help us.”
Fear bloomed in the dark places of my mind. “I can’t,” I said aloud, opening my eyes again. “Forcas has my blood. I can’t come back down there. I . . . can’t.”
“You are wounded. He has harmed you.” Her voice was a delicate chime of compassion. “Woooouuuunded.”
I knew she meant my side, the psychic injury I had first received while mired in the walls of her trap. She cocked her head, rotating in her prison, turning the eagle face to me. The beak parted. “I hear my wheels,” she said, her strange, pointed tongue speaking words.
Again she gyrated, her chains turning with her. The lion face spoke, a lyrical growl. “You have bound them to you. Bound them. Save us. Come. Now!”
Below the growl, I heard the wheels crooning to me. “Soon. Your stolen blood will be restored. We will help you. And you will help her. You will rescue the Mistress. You will.”
I linked the trails of the warren beneath the Trine into a map and stored it in a sliver of amethyst, then slipped from the vision and the otherness like stepping from a pond, weird images sluicing away like water. When I came to myself, I was still sitting on the workbench, legs cramping. I clicked open the circle and slid to the ground. When my circulation had returned to my toes, and I could stand without pain, I picked up the stones.
The citrine was unchanged, but the amethyst, which had faded from a rich lavender the first time I had seen it to a clear crystal, seemed a deeper hue, as if contact with the other stones had restored some of its vibrancy. The Minor Flame, however, was glowing with a peachy, phosphorescent radiance.
“You look better,” I said to the Flame.
It flashed a darker shade and then brighter. I could have sworn it winked.
Chapter 22
Before dusk, I had shaped and carved all the green aventurine stones for the leaf necklace, and had taken them through the first polishing, most by hand. I didn’t stop for lunch, or breaks, or time to think. I didn’t stop for anything, and though it was Monday, and I assumed the sign was still on the back door, no one came to me for charms or favors.
By nightfall, my body had stiffened into the hunch-backed curve of an old crone. I had taken off my one-piece work jumpsuit and was stretching cramped muscles when Rupert, shooting me glances, came to the back. He put away stock, chattered about repairs on the town, about new items that had sold online, about orders from shops that carried our more pricey items. He shared an amusing tidbit about a dog that wandered in while the front glass was being replaced, and that a moose herd had been spotted to the south. He told me that Marla was back and Ciana had gone home with her, revealed the safeguards the town fathers had ordered for the night—el-cars loaded with well-armed guards, and elders praying in shifts.
My best friend was far too chatty, and after ten minutes of nattering on, during which he studied me with concerned eyes, I held up a hand to stem the flow. “What do you really want?” I asked, watching his face.
Rupert put a hand on his hip, all queenly indignation, something he did when he was uncomfortable. “You’re too quiet. You haven’t said a word all day. I want to know if you’re all right. No, that’s not quite it. I want to know what in Habbiel’s pearly citadel is wrong with you,” he said baldly.
I tested the words on my tongue, watching my hands as they hefted a fist of quartz. When I thought I could say them out loud, I set the quartz down and leaned against the workbench, bracing myself with my palms. “I made a mistake. I slept with Lucas last night.”
“Oh,” Rupert said, his face falling, his indignation collapsing. He slid his hand into his pocket, opened his mouth, and closed it with a click before speaking again. “Well. I see,” he said. Without another word, he turned and left the room.
“That went just dandy,” I said into the silence. I wasn’t completely certain what Rupert’s expressions had meant when I told him—all sorts of feelings had flitted across his face—but the final one had been dismay. Which pretty well summed up my own feelings.
Alone, I finished my stretching and cleaned up the stone-dust-and-water mess that accumulated when I worked stone. Feeling better having spent the day with my first love, I turned off the heat and went upstairs, my feet ringing on the old boards.
Oddly, Rupert had gone up without me. I had sort of hoped he would speak again, maybe invite me to have supper with Audric and him. I assumed they were arguing about Audric leaving town, but I was at loose ends. And out of food. I still hadn’t made it to the grocery store. Too busy fighting Darkness, saving the town, and getting smeared by vandals. Unhappily, I remembered I had dirty sheets on the bed and on the porch. Those were probably frozen to the wood, stuck there until spring thaw. And no clean ones available.
I opened my door and stopped in the opening. A light was on, the heat was up, and candle flames flickered in the breeze of the overhead fans. The place smelled wonderfully of onions, garlic, potatoes frying, and seafood. Lucas was standing in the kitchen, flipping something in a skillet, a knack I had never learned.
After one flash of anger that left me empty, I wasn’t sure what I felt as I studied him at the stove. Hungry for the meal he was preparing. Violated that he had invaded my home. Hurt that he thought he could make a place for himself in my life after cheating on me. Certain he had no idea that kissing a clerk’s hand constituted cheating. Uncertainty as to whether or not it actually did. Absolute confidence that if I let him back in my life, I’d regret it. He would cheat again. Maybe not today. Maybe not with a clerk in a bakery. But with someone.
I was pretty sure Rupert had let him in and hadn’t known what to do after our little talk, hence the peculiar look earlier. Why did things have to be so complicated? I closed the door. Lucas looked up at the sound, a welcoming look on his face. “I brought your pretty dagger back, love. An elder found it in the street.” He held up the tanto.
Love. Right. I moved to the window across from the doorway and bent, blowing out the candle. Stalking clockwise through the loft, I blew out another candle. The smell of smoke and aromatic oils followed me.
“Thorn?” I heard the tanto clatter on the table.
Without speaking, I blew out another candle and another, until I reached the kitchen table and the tall tapers that were burning there. My beeswax candles, imported from Mississippi. He hadn’t asked if he could use them. He had gone through my pantry cabinet to find them. I wondered what else he had gone through, the thought unfair, as Lucas wasn’t snoopy. But he had walked in and taken over my home. My home. I should be furious. Instead, I was just drained and cold. On the way by, I blew the tall candles out too.
When they were all out, smoke swirled in the loft air and I walked back to the kitchen. Lucas had turned off the stove and stood against the counter, watching me, arms hanging limp, his expression guarded.
I crossed my arms over my middle, aware but uncaring that my body language looked protective, and leaned my butt aga
“Last night was great,” I said. His face lightened slightly, his body unwinding fractionally. “But it shouldn’t have happened.” When he started to speak, I interrupted. “Flirting for you is as casual and unconscious as breathing. But it always hurt me. Always, every time. And you always knew it hurt, yet you still did it. And you cheated on me. And that hurt most of all.
“Stop,” I said when he tried to speak. “I’m not finished. And I need to say this.” I took a breath that pulled at my ribs, the air aching as it passed through my throat. “I know it didn’t mean anything to you; that kind of flirting never did. But I saw you today, with the pretty girl in the bakery across the street.”
“Are we going to go over this again?” he asked. “Every day for the rest of our lives? You know I love you. I’ve apologized for the one time—one time—I cheated on you. I told you I want you back. You, not some big-busted girl from a bakery.”
I laughed softly through my nose, breathing the amusement and the hurt out together with wry acceptance. He clearly had no idea how transparent his statement was.
“I had plans. Supper made—pasta Alfredo, and salad, wine, dessert, great sex,” he said, “and you have to go and—”
“Yes,” I said into his tirade. “I know you love me.”
“And I’ll never cheat on you again.”
“That I don’t know,” I said, tightening my arms around my waist. “I really don’t. And I never will. Our ideas about what constitutes cheating are different. Our concepts about the sanctity of marriage are different. We’re divorced, Lucas. And frankly, our marriage was probably over before it ever started.”
Incredulity crossed his face. “Sanctity of marriage? Sanctity? Death and plagues, Thorn, you’re a mage.” He picked up a pot lid and slammed it down on the skillet. “Under the right conditions, you’ll mate with anything that moves. In any combination. I’ve heard the stories.”