Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 4

  Whatever his motives, this unsavory creature would no longer trouble Lady Linnet Norwood. She’d be safe now, with all three of her assailants slain by his deadly touch.

  Disregarding the usual volley of screams and commotion, he glanced around, searching for a quiet table to finish his pipe.

  On the eve of Elizabeth Tudor’s coronation, every table in the place was occupied. But Zamiel’s gaze halted at a face he knew. Though centuries had passed since their last encounter, this was not a face one could forget.

  It was the face he wore himself, and saw reflected in the glazed eyes of every mortal whose soul he sent to Hell. A triangular face, edged with slanting cheekbones, high brow, narrow nose and a mobile mouth that uttered wicked blasphemy with such charm you couldn’t help smiling. Lavender eyes spilled their dim glow over pale skin. A teardrop amethyst swung rakishly from one ear. A veritable fortune in gemstones glittered from a doublet slashed and puffed in the first stare of fashion.

  But the likeness wasn’t exact, not really. An eternity of hardship and bitterness had carved fine lines around those violet eyes. The gleaming jet-black mane that teased those proud shoulders was threaded now with silver.

  By firelight, Zamiel could just discern the shadowy flames that flickered like a dark halo—or a crown—around his head.

  As always, his nearness perfumed the air with the acrid bite of burning wood. When the visitor rose, his wooden chair would be charred black.

  As bystanders crowded around the dead fool and tussled with the drover, someone jostled Zamiel. Absently he slipped his gauntlet on, guarding against some careless, inevitably fatal contact. Then he rose and swept the old serpent a mocking bow.

  “Well met, Father.”

  “Zamiel.” His father smiled, eyes creasing with the seductive warmth he could deploy so effortlessly. “Thou dost look well, all things considered. How long has it been?”

  Feigning indifference, Zamiel shrugged. “In mortal years? Since Nero, I suppose. I’ll never forget his appalling dirge when that lunatic serenaded his burning city. He wasn’t half the musician he claimed to be.”

  “Thou art a demanding audience. Nero dost play somewhat better these days, albeit for a captive audience.” His father’s graceful hand swooped in a gesture of regret. “Thou should visit our home to listen.”

  “But then I, too, would become a captive audience,” Zamiel parried, falling into the familiar thrust and riposte of any discourse with the Prince of Devils.

  As they exchanged pleasantries in ancient Sumerian, the first spoken language but a dead tongue for millennia, Zamiel’s gaze skimmed the tavern. Normally, the sight of them together dazzled mortal eyes. His father’s unearthly beauty could strike men dumb, and Zamiel was fashioned in his image.

  The old serpent must have befuddled the wits of these mortals, so they saw nothing amiss in the shadowy pair before the fire. Even the wine girl wasn’t troubling them.

  The anonymity must chafe him, since the Prince of Devils reveled in adoration.

  But no illusion could conceal them from the all-seeing eye of Heaven. Contact between them was forbidden, if any in the Court of Heaven cared to look.

  But who would bother, given the unsettled state of affairs among the Choirs of angels in the celestial realm? The Seraphim and Thrones were the precious favorites, too blinded by His light to heed the scurrying insects of the mortal realm. They resided in the first echelon, the angels who dwelled closest to God, too proud and mighty to notice a forbidden encounter in a mortal tavern.

  Even in the second echelon, farther from the Presence, the Choirs were indifferent to the world below. The Virtues were too puffed up with their own importance, the Dominions and Powers too consumed with their warlike pursuits—each bristling with suspicion of the other. Zamiel’s assorted misdemeanors on the mortal plane would lie beneath their interest.

  Only those angels farthest from the Light, in the third and lowest echelon, might notice his misdeeds. For these Choirs dwelled closest to mortals. Still, the Principalities who guarded mortal rulers were spread too thin, and the ministering Angels of the rank and file—the guardian angels of Christian prayer—were too weak to risk a Dominion’s wrath.

  Still, those goggle-eyed, see-it-all Cherubim would surely notice. They were the spies and observers of the heavenly host, and looked ever outward from the Presence. And, once informed, the Archangels—lieutenants and constables of the celestial realm—would delight in chastening him. They were so good at it, after all.

  Zamiel supposed he was in for a tedious scolding from Metatron, both for the business with Lady Linnet and this banned contact with the Prince of Devils. Hard telling your superior in the chain of command, which Metatron undoubtedly was, to stop blathering for the love of Heaven and get to the bloody point.

  In any event, there was nothing more they could do to his father. The Most Righteous had done His worst, and the old serpent was still standing.

  As for Zamiel, this must be his day for breaking the rules. Again. He’d thumb his nose at Metatron and laugh until the Archangel danced with rage.

  So he dropped into an empty seat and stowed his lute beneath the table. This close to his father, the acrid scent of burning stung his throat.

  “You’re far from home, Father,” he murmured.

  “Am I?” His father glanced from the murderer lying dead in his own blood to the cursing knot of men brutally muscling away his killer. “I shall adhere to the usual conventions. Twice only shall I lie to thee this night.”

  This was a little family tradition of theirs. The Prince of Devils might be the Father of Lies, but he liked to issue these friendly reminders.

  Sometimes it helped. But only sometimes.

  “We won’t be talking long enough for you to lie even once,” Zamiel said. “As you well know, we’re not supposed to be talking at all. I’ll have Metatron breathing down my neck—or worse, that self-righteous, self-important prig Michael. What are you doing here, Lucifer?”

  “Thou art impatient and irreverent.” The fallen angel called Lucifer, Son of the Morning, chided him softly. “Did I teach thee naught of courtesy when I crafted thee in Mine own image? Thou art the only son I have, Zamiel—the only time He let Me do it. Have I not earned thy forbearance?”

  Ah, now for the sting of filial guilt. Guilt for his father’s exile, for his eternal suffering, for his own refusal to join Lucifer’s rebellion. Time again for this festering resentment against celestial justice that had become Zamiel’s best and only companion on the slow march through eternity.

  Time for the painful twinge in his heart that some would call love. But he was poorly suited for that.

  “In one mortal hour, Father,” he said curtly, “the son of the Jiajing Emperor, the pride of the Ming Dynasty, will be slain by the Qing in China. He’s a butcher with honor, a tyrant who protects women and children. His case is complicated and he’s on my list. I need to be there.”

  “Ah.” Something flickered in Lucifer’s face. But he’d learned long ago not to trust any face the old serpent showed him. “As I feared. Thou hast no notion what has befallen thee.”

  “What do you mean?” Despite his customary assumption that Lucifer lied about everything, Zamiel felt a prickle of unease. “Don’t be so damn Biblical, Father. Nothing has befallen me.”

  His father snorted. “Cowards and weaklings! Always they leave it to Me, convenient demon that I am, to summon hellfire and brimstone and pronounce whatever the doom may be. How typical.”

  “Why bother?” Zamiel managed a laugh, but his gut tightened. “I won’t believe you. You always lie, for Heaven’s sake.”

  “I don’t always lie.” Lucifer looked wounded. “And thou need not believe anything. There’s naught to take on faith here. Who can say? In thy present mood, with coals of resentment burning a hole in thy belly, this act of divine judgment may be just the thing—the revolution thou hast cried out for.”

  Unwillingly intrigued, Zamiel found himself leanin
g closer. His father’s voice deepened, until his words seemed to echo between the worlds.

  “Zamiel, My son. Thou art mortal.”

  Unaccountably disappointed, he sighed and glanced away. “That would be one of your lies. Truly, Father, I’ve little time for this game today.”

  “Would I lie so poorly, with so little skill?” The Prince of Devils raised a finger in mock reproof. “Thou hast committed the unpardonable sin. Thou hast intervened in mortal affairs, spared life instead of taking it. Such intervention is strictly forbidden.”

  “That girl I saved, she isn’t mortal—”

  “The girl is unimportant, her fate immaterial.” Impatient, his father waved that aside. “Thou art an Angel of Death, not life. Thou art a Dominion, a light in the Court of Heaven, immune to all earthly desires and impulses. Why didst thou do it?”

  The simmering coals of anger in his belly ignited into wrath, the killing rage to which all the warrior Choirs were dangerously susceptible.

  “Why?” Zamiel’s fist crashed down on the table. “You dare to ask me why? You who were the first to rise in rebellion against the endless, rule-bound monotony of our existence? You who were the first to reject this pointless charade of praise and toadying to an indifferent, self-absorbed Deity who’s gone deaf to the ceaseless chorus of lamentation?” His voice shook. “You who were the first to fall.”

  He wanted to roar the words, but he feared the effect on the tender mortal ears around them. Instead he clenched his fists on the table and glared, cutting off the torrent of words before he lost all control.

  Undaunted by his fury, Lucifer studied him, head tilted. “’Twas an act of deliberate rebellion, then, this act of mercy toward the girl? Have thou grown so angry at Jehovah as to renounce thy place at His side?”

  Lucifer leaned forward. “Dost thou seek to fall?”

  Despite his rage, Zamiel hesitated. None of them left in Heaven knew what it meant to fall, not really. As for the infernal realm his father ruled, no angel had ever seen it. Hell was the place God wasn’t, plain and simple.

  And the only way for a Dominion to leave the Divine Presence was to fall. Choosing to fall was the supreme leap of faith.

  He’d be committed, so to speak, if he fell. And he didn’t trust the Father of Lies to catch him.

  Cautiously, he glanced down at himself. He looked and felt the same in this mortal guise he’d assumed on Gracechurch Street—spirit made flesh, limbs solid and supple, lean with muscle under a doublet of garnet damask. This close to his father’s infernal heat, his silk shirt was damp with mortal sweat. Was that normal in his corporeal form?

  Wondering, he touched gloved fingers to his brow. Where they’d grazed his skin, his fingertips glistened with tiny crystals of moisture.

  “Are you saying I’ve fallen and this is Hell?” He snorted in disbelief. “Somehow I expected my plummet from grace to be a bit more dramatic. Surely I ought to have noticed?”

  “Thou hast not fallen.” Lucifer smiled. “Not yet. Angry at Jehovah thou may be, determined to open His ears to this endless din of suffering—to thy suffering. But thou hast not done the irrevocable. Despite the legion of minor rebellions that make thee notorious and trouble the peace of Heaven, thou hast not renounced Him as I did.”

  Nay, but he’d toyed with it, imagined what would happen. This wasn’t the first time Lucifer had hinted he should do it—rebel, renounce God, let the pieces fall where they would. The night Rome burned, the old serpent had downright urged him to do it.

  Perhaps the true reason Zamiel still hesitated was his fear that even the ultimate sacrifice would spur no response from Jehovah.

  “So?” his father pressed. “Why didst thou do it? Why intervene in that girl’s fate? If thou would stir the pot, why not lay thy deadly hand on the mortals’ new Queen? If Elizabeth Tudor drops dead with no successor, plunging England into civil war and anarchy...ah, now that would be entertainment.”

  “I didn’t do it for your amusement,” Zamiel said irritably. “As you well know, Elizabeth Tudor is no mere mortal. She’s part Fae through Anne Boleyn, whether she knows it or not. Over the souls of the Fae, we have no jurisdiction.”

  “Rules, always rules,” the other murmured. “Then why meddle with the Scottish girl? She too hast Faerie blood. Thou must have sensed she lies under powerful magick. Question her and thou shalt find half her life missing, at least the years that matter. That’s Morrigan’s business.”

  “The Faerie Queene’s heir?” Zamiel tilted his head. “The sorceress? They say Queene Maeve lies on her deathbed in the Summer Lands, and the Faerie throne passes from mother to daughter in the matrilineal way. That means Morrigan must soon ascend. But the Faerie realm lies separate from the mortal plane. Why would Morrigan meddle with a mortal girl?”

  “The Veil between the worlds is thinning.” Lucifer shrugged. “As it does every thousand years. As it did in the Dark Ages, a thousand years past, when Arthur of Camelot wedded the Faerie Queene and ruled both realms...for a time.”

  “Until he died,” Zamiel recalled, “and the two lands drifted apart once more. For mortals, that’s ancient history. For Heaven’s sake, most of them don’t even remember it!”

  “All the same,” his father murmured. “Thy Scottish girl is Faerie business, through and through.”

  As though the words had summoned her, the girl’s image floated through his mind. Lady Linnet Norwood, burning with courage like a torch, her tawny eyes flaming like twin suns as she fought so fiercely for her precious life. The color that rose beneath her creamy skin under his mocking gaze. The unprecedented way she’d approached him, drawn to touch him as no other had ever done in all the solitary eons of his existence.

  He was an outcast even in Heaven. Shunned and feared as the Severity of God, his touch brought death. The only mortals to look upon his face were the damned.

  And Linnet Norwood had mortal blood, mixed with the other.

  If he touched her, he would kill her.

  Yet, somehow, he’d wrestled with a wild impulse to take his chances.

  Watching him, his father chuckled, a low hum of satisfaction that recalled Zamiel to his company. Cursing himself, he emptied his face, but too late.

  “Thou art drawn to her.” Comfortably, Lucifer lounged in his chair. The bitter stench of scorched wood drifted upward. “Thou art an angel, Chief Ruler of the Fifth Heaven—the realm of those tiresome carolers who forever sing His praises.”

  Zamiel shifted impatiently. “I’m a glorified landlord, like the Rulers of the other six precincts. You know how it is. The Seven Heavens are little more than a postal direction.”

  “Thou art a peer of the celestial realm,” his father pointed out, “yet beguiled by a mere woman. Is she such a beauty?”

  “Yes.” Despite himself, Zamiel grinned. “She is.”

  Lucifer laughed. “Excellent. In that case, thou may find this exile more pleasant than thy celestial judge intended.”

  “Exile? Am I supposed to remain here? In London?”

  Of course, his first irreverent impulse was to laugh. How long had he railed in despair against the cold, perfect solitude of the Fifth Heaven, where he ruled with the Music of the Spheres his sole consolation?

  Truly, Metatron had never understood him. The Archangel knew him not at all if he fancied that rubbing elbows with this noisy, struggling, laughing, loving, brawling sea of mortals would be anything less than invigorating, a welcome interlude from the grim monotony of his damned duty.

  Lucifer waved a negligent hand. “London, Paris, Venice, the New World. Wherever thy wandering feet shall carry thee.”

  “But not to Heaven? Shall I find the gate barred by Seraphim with flaming swords?”

  The mere notion thrilled him. If the Seraphim raised their blades against him—a Dominion and rival Choir—it would ignite the smoldering embers of discontent. The restless ranks of Heaven would rise in rebellion. Just what was needed, in his view.

  “That pronouncing th
is verdict should fall to Me is bitter irony. Someone up there must be laughing.” The Prince of Devils sighed. “Know this, Zamiel. Among the Archangels who judged thee, only Raphael spoke for thee, no doubt for his own reasons. Righteous Michael spoke against thee, as did thy nemesis Metatron, which surely does not surprise thee. Also Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory—”

  “Metatron’s twin,” Zamiel snorted.

  “And the Angel of Mercy—”

  “Gabriele?” He suffered a sting of betrayal. He’d thought Gabriele his only friend. Yet it seemed she too had turned against him.

  “Zamiel, try not to interrupt. This is more than another of thy casual insurrections. The Court of Heaven has exiled thee to a mortal body. Cloaked in flesh, thou art barred from return to the Divine Presence.”

  Dropping the role of celestial messenger like a discarded boot, his father grimaced. “In their conceit, they undoubtedly believe this is the worst fate that can befall an angel.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself and boring you, Father...I’m mortal?”

  Zamiel could scarcely grasp it. Again he glanced down at his frame, this body he’d summoned so carelessly at the Maid and Minion. Clearly he was supposed to be quaking in his boots, yet it occurred to him that he could have done worse. At least, Linnet Norwood had seemed to react well enough to this mortal guise. He ought to have been taller, perhaps. When she’d stood beside him, he’d barely topped her.

  Perhaps this was one of Lucifer’s lies, or one of his little jokes. Jehovah knew, it wouldn’t be the first one. Zamiel had to have gotten his penchant for mischief from somewhere.

  But even as he considered that possibility, his abdomen tightened and cramped—a most extraordinary sensation, novel but not entirely pleasant. Beneath the din of drunken congress and third-rate music, he clearly discerned the growl of an empty belly.

  Joshua’s Trumpet, could he be hungry?

  “Why not?” Lucifer shrugged. “They did it to Uriel, did they not—one of the precious favorites? This very moment, I vow, the Angel of Vengeance is in Paris, savoring the pleasures of the flesh with his new bride.”