Seven Archangels: Annihilation

Jane Lebak

Chapter 16

Remiel returned to her studio for the first time since Gabriel's capture. She didn't turn on the lights because of the mirrors, so instead she groped her way across the smooth, wooden floor to a room at the opposite side. There she lighted all the lamps with a hand motion rather than illuminate it herself, and she staggered her way to her desk. The bed, end table and chair stayed in the correct places, thankfully, although the same couldn't be said for the angle of the floor.

She wasn't winged. She was remarkably solid but felt as if she might float away in the slightest gust of air.

A vase of cut flowers stood on the end table, filling the air with the spices of autumn. Remiel looked over herself and could name different scents: iodine, cigarette smoke, beer.

She fingered her ear, then flinched.

After calling a tall glass to her hand, she flashed water into it, added salt, and heated up the whole thing on her palm. When it was hot but not too hot to touch, she raised her shirt and bent over the glass so the lip of it sealed around her navel. She lay back on her bed so the cup was inverted with salt water gently scalding her skin.

Remiel closed her eyes. Saraquael would know how Gabriel was. The whole time she'd been in Creation, she hadn't dared ask in case she'd be overheard by them, and then she'd remembered being one of them and thought she shouldn't know just so she wouldn't tell them (but wait, she hadn't told them, right? Mephistopheles had caught her and asked, but she couldn't remember what she'd answered) and she shouldn't even think too much about him. So she hadn't told any of the guardians on Earth, hadn't asked for an update, hadn't dared let herself believe the unbelievable, because what if that had been a part of the dream too, and what if Saraquael had said something nebulous just so she'd calm down, or what if he had said something else and she'd only heard what she so desperately wanted, although impossible?

Maybe Saraquael would bring her to him now. Maybe Gabriel would be awake and she could see the truth.

Remiel tried to feel around Heaven for Gabriel, but again, nothing.

He had to be dead.

Saraquael said he was Guarded. Who would have put up the Guard?

Oh, of course.

"Michael?" Her voice sounded thin.

The Archangel appeared, at first concerned, but then he drew a sharp breath.

"Don't be like that," Remiel said. "How is Gabriel?"

"I haven't seen him in a couple of hours. I assume he's the same." He folded his arms. "You smell like an ash tray."

"The poison gets into the air," Remiel said. "I need a shower." She pursed her lips. "When can I see him?"

"I'd suggest," he said, undue emphasis on suggest, "after you sober up a bit."

"I'm not even buzzed."

"And get decently dressed."

"He's not going to lust after me, Michael. Seriously. I can't even imagine him caring."

"But others might." Michael's eyes glinted. "You went partying on Earth, and were you dressed like that the whole time?"

She propped herself on one elbow to see. Mid-calf black boots, mid-thigh black skirt, and a rumpled white t-shirt that ended a little below her navel when she stood. "It looks skimpier pushed up like this." She laid back down on the mattress.

Michael said, "And you've apparently forgotten how to drink," pointing at the inverted cup of water.

Remiel met his eyes just long enough to register the blue sparkle that meant his last statement was a joke. Okay. He was okay. It was all right.

"He told me to do this."

"Unless 'he' was God, what would compel you to do that?"

"Because he'd know." She rolled to her side, allowing her shirt to cascade over her abdomen and tipping the cup away to reveal a metal ring in her navel.

"That's—" Michael swallowed. "Why did you do that?"

Remiel shrugged.

"Did it hurt?"

"Not enough." Her eyes glistened. She raised a hand to her hair, brushing it aside to reveal three piercings in one ear.

Michael took a step back. "Remiel, are you sure—?"

She looked at the circlet on her abdomen. "I lost all the ones I had when I became Camael, and I needed them back." She flashed a hand mirror to herself and angled it for a better view of the navel ring, then up again so she could look at her ear, then at the other (three more on that side.) She avoided looking at her face, only at the pretty titanium rings that glinted around the red sore spots.

Michael took a step closer. "So the water on your stomach…?"

"Supposed to prevent infection."

"I have an easier way to prevent infection." He sat on the edge of the bed. "You're an angel. If you switch back to your angelic form, you can't get one."

"But I can't, not right now." Remiel started to put down the mirror until she caught a glimpse of her face as it passed by. A dull ache in her chest. She tilted it again so she saw only her eyes and her hair, could see him just as he was back then, back when they could no more be separated than the heat and light in a fire.

Michael sounded as if he ached too. "Was being Camael that bad?"

"I— I wasn't doing it because of Camael." Remiel rolled onto her stomach and felt the twinge where the ring rubbed against the bed. She crossed her arms and laid down her head, keeping the ear protected in the hollow by the crook of her arm.

"Tell me." Michael's weight made the mattress shift. "Why don't you just want to heal up?"

"Because I've got to go back." Remiel closed her eyes and traced circles on the blanket. "The piercer tried to talk me into a rook, but I told him no. Not tonight. I'll go back for it when he's ready. But if I do that and I'm all healed up, he'll know something isn't right."

Michael stroked the back of her hair. "What's a rook?"

Remiel raised one hand. "It's a piercing here, through the triangle part of the ear where it's thick. He wanted me to get a rook orbital."

"Orbital being a ring rather than a stud?"

"No, no, you never want to pierce with a stud." Remiel propped herself on one elbow. "The rings are called captive bead rings. They're the best for early piercings because they can be turned. If you twist a stud you can get infected."

"You did your research." Michael didn't seem horrified any longer.

"You don't want a piercing done with a gun. They're not sanitary because they can't be sterilized. They put their nice, sterile earrings into an unsanitary gun, and it undoes the whole thing, although they pretend to work magic with an alcohol swab. I've killed hepatitis and AIDS viruses on piercing guns."

Michael flinched. "But with a ring, what's different?"

"A piercer uses a bigger gauge needle than the ring, and the needle has been heat-sterilized in an autoclave." She blinked, then tried to sit up. Michael helped her. "Thanks. Anyhow, since the hole is bigger, it gives you room for swelling, and it heals better."

Michael said, "Do all the piercings have names?"

Remiel pointed to them in order traveling up her ear. "Lobe. Conch. Helix. The helix is a cartilage piercing."

Michael said, "And the orbital thing, then?"

"Orbitals are parallel to the plane of your head. They don't dangle."

Michael grimaced. "So he'll pierce you twice to put in the ring. Why would you go back for that?"

Remiel blinked unsteadily. "I asked around to find who would be the best piercer, you know? I can go anywhere in the world, so it might as well be the best. I got online at an internet café and asked in a piercing chat room, and someone recommended this guy, and God told me to go to him."

Remiel took Michael's hand. "I don't know, maybe it's stupid. I could make fifty piercings on my body right now if I wanted, just by thinking about it, but what I wanted—somebody solid. Something that reached inside."

Michael squeezed her fingers.

"Anyhow, I told him what I wanted, and he tried to talk me into only doing two, but I'm pretty stubborn. And he—" She rubbed her eyes. "I asked how he got trained, and he told me about studying piercing. At the mall they just use the earring gun on a teddy bear. But he had to learn how the body works, where the nerves are and everything."

Michael put his arm over her shoulder. She rested her head against him, flinched, and then found a place where her ear didn't throb and the rings didn't get pressed.

"In between one ear and the other, he told me how awesome the body is, and how the nerves work, and I don't know, I asked if he knew why it was, and he said he was never sure, and I told him I was. While he did the navel ring, we talked about God, and he wanted to do the rook, but I think he just wanted to keep talking."

Michael closed his eyes. "And that's why you're going back to talk to him again."

"We prayed together." When she concentrated, she could still feel herself focusing the fledgling prayer and laying it at the feet of God even as she sat on the chair touching her newly pierced ears. "I told him where to read, and he looked so excited. So I want to go back later, just to lock him in, yeah."

Michael stroked Remiel's hair. "You did a lot of good for him. It sounds as if he was ready. He just needed a push."

Remiel ran her hands over her eyes. Michael felt so strong at her side, and she couldn't help but be aware of herself: dirty, smoky, inebriated, indecent, wretched and shameful. Pierced seven times.

Michael squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry I thought badly of you."

Remiel murmured, "You didn't think anything worse than I did."

He bowed his head.

Now was the time. "I need to see Gabriel."

"You can't." Still looking at his lap, Michael shook his head. "He's too fragile. It's like your piercings. Would it be smart to touch them with unwashed hands right now? Aren't you going to keep them protected until they heal?"

Remiel bit her lip. "I suppose. But I'm not that dirty, am I?"

"He's raw." Michael massaged her shoulders. "Uriel wants as few visitors as possible. Even Raphael got thrown out."

Remiel's eyes bugged.

"So no, no visitors."

She let out a long breath. "I just want to forget that it was all my fault. I can do that if I apologize to him. I didn't want to hurt him. I never intended to."

"He knows you would never hurt him."

"But I did!"

"It wasn't intentional." Michael continued rubbing her shoulders. "But if you think you unintentionally hurt him before, don't you see it's possible to unintentionally hurt him now?  And not just you. That's why everyone has to stay away."

Remiel huddled over herself. Finally she said, "You'll let me in first when it's time?"

Michael patted her. "If you can push Raphael out of the way, be my guest."

Remiel laid down again, and Michael helped her find a way that she wasn't uncomfortable. She blinked off the lights so he would leave, but then Remiel didn't try to sleep.

  Uriel startled when the Cherub Ophaniel walked into the bungalow as if there were no Guard.

Even as Uriel tried to work up the outrage to force him out again, Gabriel's eyes flashed even brighter than his surprised smile. Good news! I discovered what Satan was trying to do!

Ophaniel laughed, touched his wing tips to Gabriel's hands, and settled onto a chair.

This was ridiculous. Uriel stood, arms folded.

Ophaniel turned to the Throne. "I figured there had to be a way through the Guard, so I found it."

Gabriel cocked his head, and Ophaniel nodded to him as if Uriel weren't even there. "Now that you're repaired, I can't mingle your substance and mine, so I asked Michael to let me into another place he'd Guarded. He isn't paranoid enough to Guard everything separately, so he gave me permission, and I came here instead."

Gabriel tried to sit up, then battled a moment's vertigo and confusion. Ophaniel grabbed his hands while Gabriel rode it out. "You're with me. No worries. You're among friends."

Gabriel smiled ruefully. Then he brightened again.

"Yeah, it did work. I doubt we'd see the same success against our enemies, to be honest, although there's always the possibility of exploiting a similar weakness—"

By now Uriel had returned to the corner, and the Cherubim continued talking—or rather, Ophaniel spoke and Gabriel participated nonverbally. Ophaniel jumped right into questions about the repair process, and Gabriel batted them back as other questions, a tactic that rapidly established a debate between the Cherubim. Uriel in the corner produced some sheet music and continued to play the mandolin.

Half an hour later, Uriel looked up to find Gabriel a paler grey than usual but still engrossed in a discussion of what the will was and if the will was a part of angelic substance like the soul and how did one define substance in the first place. Ophaniel started by attempting to define the will, only Gabriel must have refuted that because immediately he determined a second definition, and then they moved on to defining substance and soul.

It was when Gabriel protested that Ophaniel's system of definitions was recursive that Uriel realized the increasing degree of complexity Gabriel was able to project. Whether he hadn't needed to before or hadn't wanted to—or simply hadn't the opportunity—he'd kept everything simple: requests, statements, questions. Up until this moment, the idea of forcing a convalescent to tackle metaphysics at the Cherub level would have seemed like cruelty.

All the same, Gabriel was flagging. Uriel sent a warning to Ophaniel, who missed that and two others before he noticed how tired Gabriel seemed. He apologized even as Gabriel insisted he continue.

"I really came by to give you this." Ophaniel handed an envelope to Gabriel, and then Uriel flashed them to the next room.

"Please don't do that again." Uriel frowned. "If you carried any latent Seraph fire—"

"I made certain I didn't." Ophaniel inserted his hands in his pockets. "I knew what I was doing. Raphael explained about the energy, but I wanted to see him myself." He added, "By the way, about his aphonia, I meant to try him reciting something he's memorized. That will determine whether the impediment lies in the apparatus or in the wiring."

Uriel's eyes darkened to indigo.

"I'm not gawking." Ophaniel cocked his head. "He's my friend."

"Half of Heaven would say the same thing to get in here."

"And I knew what I was doing. He doesn't look the way I expected." Ophaniel bit his lip. "When Raphael pulled him out of Hell, he was a mess."

Uriel touched his shoulder, and Ophaniel's wings drooped.

Uriel said, "I want you to tell Michael how you circumvented his Guard."

Ophaniel's wings spread. "Absolutely! I'd hoped we could devise a more stringent means of securing an area anyway, one requiring less concentrated effort with a greater reliability compared to—"

Uriel's eyes glimmered, and then Ophaniel was flashed away.

It would be approximately two minutes until Michael began wishing Uriel hadn't done that: fit repayment for a permeated Guard.

Uriel checked with Mary that everything was all right with her ("Polenta is nearly done!") and then returned to Gabriel.

Remiel was sitting on the bed, holding Gabriel's hand.

A shudder of frustration surged through the Throne. "He's sick!" Uriel pushed her out of the room and far away. "Spread the word—leave him alone!"

Then Uriel turned toward Gabriel, eyes wide with concern. Gabriel looked uneasy, a little shocked, but otherwise unharmed. Uriel couldn't detect any signature of Remiel in the atmosphere, so it was possible she hadn't been emanating any power.

Uriel looked out the window. This was no good. Either Michael was distracted or he'd put up the world's shoddiest Guard, to have two breaks in an hour.

Pointedly from Gabriel: What was wrong with Remiel?

Uriel leaned on the windowsill, forehead pressed against the glass.

Again the question from Gabriel, stronger.

"She went into Hell to get you out."

The sunlight filtered in so strong, so direct, keeping warm the already sweltering room. The slanted rays illuminated the tiny shadows of the floor, the natural variations in color.

Surprised denial from Gabriel.

"She went in as Camael. She didn't think twice."

A rustle softly behind him. Gabriel had his wings up about himself, tips crossed in front of his lap.

Uriel listened to nature outside, to birds in their relaxed calls, crickets singing with their legs, plants silent by themselves and so rustling against one another to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. There was nothing more to say to Gabriel: the Cherub was fitting the pieces together just fine in his mind.

A moment later, grief.

Uriel turned to Gabriel, still enclosed in his own wings. Remiel had done it because she loved him, because of her own sense of justice, because she knew from serving with Michael that the thing to do was the right thing, at once. Her impulses, her love, and ultimately everything she was.

From Gabriel: admiration.

Uriel agreed.

Another rustle of wings. Uriel felt Gabriel brace himself, look at the Vision, and then lie down on his stomach.

Gabriel's thoughts turned to how stable Remiel was, if she had been able to slip so easily through a Guard.

Uriel squinted. No reported problems had reached here.

Relief sloughed off Gabriel, more than Uriel expected. A cocked head and a frown.

Gabriel clenched his fists: Remiel knew how to unlace a soul.

Uriel protested.

But if she'd posed as Camael, then she'd been there when Satan unlaced Gabriel. In fact, Uriel felt Gabriel clarify, Satan had channeled his power through her as a focus. Of course she knew. She just hadn't mentioned it.

Uriel's lips pursed. Too many individuals knew how to do the forbidden. How long until it became common knowledge? How many more angels would they need to repair? How many would they lose?

But Gabriel's eyes had closed, and Uriel's gaze returned to the greenery.

Just then Uriel remembered Ophaniel's question about reciting. "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments."

Gabriel murmured, almost asleep, "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."

Problems with the wiring, Ophaniel had said. Not with the apparatus.

Uriel's eyes closed in prayer.

  Mephistopheles had a minor demon chained in the ice fields, and he played with its heartstrings. Nothing much. He practiced all the work he'd done before, verifying that he still could reach in the same way, grab this, unhook that, tighten that other thing. He noted the things the demon screamed and tried to determine what part he had touched based on what it said. It might be interesting at some point in the future to chain two minor demons side by side and transfer material from one to the other. Assuming he could by that means graft two together, he could potentially forge a few super-strong angels. The minor demons could be so useless at times: the hellfire burned away all their rational thought and left them as unreasoning as cornered animals. Maybe combining them would give them a boost out of savagery, since objectively they couldn't hurt more than one hundred percent.

To give Lucifer the answer he wanted, Mephistopheles should find a single vulnerable point, a focus in the soul where the power converged, and then surgically remove just that spot. Destroy a locus like that and you might well be able to make an angel fall apart in its tracks, much like removing a monkey's spine without touching the rest of him. To locate such a pressure point, Mephistopheles could infiltrate a minor demon with power from various points on the heartstring simultaneously and note the flow pattern.

Easy enough. Why didn't he do it?

Putting together two minor demons, though—that might be interesting.

Behind him Mephistopheles felt Belior, so he released the minor demon's heartstrings and turned.

The other Cherub wore black armor. "I have a message for you."

Mephistopheles didn't summon his sword, but he armored his heart.

"Camael isn't locatable."

Mephistopheles raised his eyebrows. "Have you tried—"

"I assure you, if the technique exists, we've attempted it. Camael is either hidden or destroyed."

"Or possibly insane."

Belior shook his head. "Since you located Remiel in that state—and did it without help, I might add—you may assume it's shockingly easy to find an angel in a state of mental disorder."

Turning away as if to do more work, Mephistopheles didn't bother to bristle. "Thank you for your efforts. I'm sure you did your best."

"Oh," Belior said, stepping closer, his breath hot on Mephistopheles' neck, "but that wasn't my message."

"If you're going to tell me to stay away from Asmodeus, you're wasting your energy." Mephistopheles gave a bored wave of his hand. "He approached me."

"And if he approaches you again," said an unrattled-sounding Belior, "you send him away."

Mephistopheles shrugged. "If he approaches me again, I'll ask him to consider what you have to offer that I cannot."

Belior emitted rings of tension. Mephistopheles didn't face him. He had enough power to overcome Belior easily. If necessary he could call on Beelzebub, but most likely he would win outright. No attack would come so directly. It would always be the backstab, the power play, the half-lies with their long half-lives and the random inserted truths which gave the whole stew a juicy potency. Belior would talk him down to Asmodeus, might attempt to turn Lucifer against him, could cozy up to Beelzebub, but there would never be a direct attack.

Mephistopheles made a show of continuing his work. Belior left.

All the same—what had happened to Camael? Inability to find him doubtless indicated his apprehension, and that meant questions from the enemy as to how they'd done what they had, what further plans they had in development. Which additionally meant Mephistopheles was unacceptably not in control of the flow of knowledge. This would require, at some point, a trip to Heaven to retrieve him.

 

Copyright 2008, Jane Lebak

Cover

Copyright 2008, E. J. Mickels

E.J.Mickels II—aka 'Hisart'— a multi talented artist, has a BFAA in Drawing with Minors in Illustration and Graphic Design from the University of Akron. A veteran of the USAF, he has traveled through Europe and most of the USA.

E.J. ventured out as an Illustrator and has appeared in The Sword Review as well as Ray Gun Revival and in Dragons, Knights and Angels. He also wrote and keeps his own web-site-< www.Hisart.us >—which contains a small fraction of the art he has produced. He works in any medium and is just as comfortable setting at a PC with pen and tablet as he is with a chainsaw, airbrush or welder. He has done custom motorcycle and helmet work, as well as in the distant pas,t worked as a tattooist. He is also a writer, he participated in NaNoWriMo 2005, and maintains his own blog 'Sword and Pen' at < www.hisart777.blogspot.com >.

E.J. is currently the ArtWrangler at Double-Edged Publishing's Fear and Trembling magazine: < www.fearandtremblingmag.com >.