14. Zariel
Chapter fourteen
Zariel
S he was everything I dreamed of. Literally, she filled my dreams. And my days. And every waking thought. Each accidental or intentional touch of her sent a rush of delicious heat through me, the cessation of contact leaving my soul begging for more.
It was getting worse—because I found I liked her. The physical part of the mating bond was quickly joined by my mind. She was human, but what human was like this, ravenous to learn everything?
Liking her would change nothing. I was an angel, she was not, and indulging in anything between us would only complicate things. It would only make whatever we had more painful when it ended.
We spent several days in an easy companionship while Cat worked on her studies, scribbling notes on her papers. She wrote about things like the topics of tomes in the library, architecture of the mountain, and angelic habits—nothing that was a secret. She followed me to my tasks and sat next to me each day while I worked at transcribing the mountain of documents the Artists selected for the next summit. I gritted my teeth—we should’ve been working on returning home, and yet again our time was being wasted. I couldn’t complain too much, though— the monotonous project gave me time with her, without having to worry about her learning something she shouldn’t. Something that could get us both in trouble.
Did the High Artist ever announce the plan to return home? I didn’t dare speak a word of it to Cat. If the High Artist kept his word about revealing the details of this ritual, it wasn’t something that reached me, and such a secret would be hard kept in this mountain. This was true even if my friends and friendly acquaintances were keeping their distance, likely in part since interfering with a male who had not yet completed the mate bond could be … risky. And partially due to how they were apparently assigned work that meant they were practically sequestered.
I hadn’t seen Cael since the day Cat arrived. A pity—they would like each other.
I should’ve been more unsettled at his absence and the High Artist’s silence, but it was hard to care. Not when her blue eyes were focused on the papers in front of her, her hands stained with ink. The front of her gown was draped low, revealing a tantalizing bit of pale skin. She was still sleeping in my bed. Alone. And after a week of doing so she smelled of me, always. The scent of me mixed with her was more than I could handle, leading to some almost embarrassing moments. I had to think about potatoes—a lot. White potatoes, purple potatoes, orange potatoes. Baked, mashed, fried. Lots of potatoes.
The mating bond was overwhelming. My sense of smell was never this strong before. Being this obsessed with someone wasn’t me. As was thinking about tubers.
Cat never asked me about any plans to return home, other than those that were hinted at during her first full day with me. Wise. But there also wasn’t much I could say at this point, because I didn’t know.
“Are you sure I can’t take a different manuscript?” Cat whispered. Today I was transcribing a catalogue of weather patterns, something that the humans were interested in for some reason, which meant Cat was trapped reading those same patterns. We sat with the rows of other scribes, each of us plucking away at our documents word by painful word. And, in some cases, drawings.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s the policy in this particular room that the only materials on hand are the ones being worked on at that moment. We will be moved back to another hall with more lenient rules once these materials are done.”
“Why? That’s a … dedicated rule. ”
“Less chance to damage or lose the items.” I inclined my head towards the guards. “They’re here to protect the books—not us.” By now the guards had stopped constantly staring at us. After a few days of realizing Cat was going to do nothing but read and write, they gave her as much attention as any other scribe. I hoped it stayed that way.
“Well, back to my book,” Cat said, pulling out the single tome she had brought with her. It was a floppy book with a gray paper cover that depicted a rather opulent apple tree.
“What’s it about?” I asked, keeping my voice as quiet as possible and ignoring the irritated stares from the other scribes.
“ Paradise Lost ?” She frowned. “It’s on how to murder Literature students through boredom.”
“Ah. One of those.”
“You’ve read those too?”
I nodded. “One angel meticulously recorded every dream he ever had in great detail. It’s considered a masterpiece, so I had to study it. But one can only read so many descriptions of teeth falling out before the effect is lessened.”
Cat grimaced. “This isn’t as bad as that. It’s a poem about how God cast humanity from the Garden of Eden. When the world was first made, the earth was a paradise. But mankind ate forbidden fruit, gained knowledge, and was cast out as punishment.”
“Cast out of paradise, for learning?” My brow furrowed. “That sounds ridiculous. ”
“I gave the simplified version, but yes.” The conversation lapsed, and my mind wandered. Cat apparently caught on that our conversation was attracting attention from disturbed scribes.
But her tale stayed with me. The humans had a story about gods casting out humans, forcing them to leave a paradise?
Could it be?
No. It was impossible. Cat’s story was a human one, and that story belonged to humans.
But … what if gods had played a role in this story too? Not that they cast us out of paradise, but rather changed it? Changed the world?
I was just about to ask Cat more questions about the book when an unwelcome presence strode up to us, the thunderous steps announcing themselves on the hard stone.
Great. And this day had been going so well.
“Zariel,” the Artist said, his black hair flowing over his shoulders, much like my own. Fortunately, that was nearly the extent of what we had in common.
“Artist,” I said, bowing my head in faux respect. Gadriel. He wasn’t an enemy—not exactly—but there were friendlier Artists in the mountain, as there were varying levels of venomous snakes. He always went out of his way to make me miserable after what happened with Aniela—currying favor with the High Artist, perhaps?
Regardless, I didn’t like how he was looking at Cat .
“The rumors are true,” Gadriel said, eying Cat who straightened her spine under his gaze. “You mated with a human.”
“I did.”
“Foolish.”
“The mate bond is not known for wisdom.” I forced my breath steady.
“No, but it can be overcome, should the victim be strong enough. But you don’t seem to have a problem bending the rules when it suits you.” He stepped around the desk, closer to Cat. She turned her body so that her back was to me, facing him directly. And then they paused, inspecting each other.
“What is your name?”
“Catalina,” she said calmly.
“And do you know what it means to be here?”
“Literally, or are you looking for some vague answer that I’ll never be able to guess?” she quipped. She was wonderful.
Gadriel’s eyes narrowed, and my admiration turned to something much more bitter. “Humans have never been allowed in this part of the Ashen Mountain before,” he said.
“I know.”
“But there are some below, in the prison. You know about the prison, don’t you?” he asked her. Before she answered, he continued with a sick smirk, “Did he tell you that the prisoners are each left with a small saw chained to the wall? Should they remove a limb, or a wing, they gain their freedom. You should see it. Intimately. I think, that with the right words to the High Artist—”
Faster than my mind could comprehend, I reached over and jabbed my ink pen into Gadriel’s hand—moments before his fingers made contact with Cat’s shoulder.
He cried out and lurched back, blood trickling out of the wound. With a growl he yanked out the pen, tossed it to the floor, and strode toward me, eyes aflame with fury. I stood and maneuvered a stunned Cat behind me and away from him, our chairs clanking on the ground. Angels moved from their desks, a clamor breaking out. All of this occurred before I could register what I had done.
What I had done.
I was not a warrior.
But for her, I would ruin them all. Cat stayed behind me, watching the scene. Was she alright? She seemed numb, deathly pale and silent.
Moments later, the library’s guards ran up and restrained Gadriel, wrenching his arms and yanking him back. “Unhand me!” he yelled as he thrashed in their iron grip. “I’m an Artist.”
“We saw everything, Artist ,” the guard said with a sneer. “An Artist should’ve known better than to risk an encounter near these tomes.”
“I did nothing.”
“You know that is not the case,” the guard said disapprovingly. “We heard everything.” Yes, there was a reason my friends were staying away, and Gadriel’s bleeding hand was proof.
With a gesture to me they all but dragged him away, and I followed shortly after, guiding a shaking Cat wrapped under my arm. “It’s alright,” I whispered to her. My anger flared. How dare he make her feel like this, making her tremble? But it was also making her press herself against me …
“He hates you,” she whispered.
“Yes. Though that’s nothing new. You’re safe, and that is what matters.”
I didn’t fool myself into thinking that the guards interfered out of some kindness—they protected the books, and only the books. Cat was merely a side effect. She could’ve been murdered in front of them and they’d only stop the blood from splattering the pages. Though Cat being the instigation meant that I didn’t have to worry about retribution from the Artists—not officially. Touching another’s mate without permission was grounds for violence under our laws. I’d done nothing wrong in stabbing him. But such technicalities were beyond the guards’ care.
They protected the books, not us.
And once Gadriel decided to seek revenge, they wouldn’t raise a wing to help me.