Chapter 6
The next five months went quick. The twice weekly meetings kept on without a hitch, and Gunnar fluctuated between ease and uncertainty, equally unpredictable. Kushiel loomed, his displeasure flavoring everything. The archivist played by the books, and the angel didn’t seem keen on any more aggression directed toward Audrey. He’d been polite since his men strip-searched her. Gunnar wondered if an angel of justice was capable of regret. Then he decided he didn’t give a shit because Gunnar wasn’t much for forgetting or forgiving.
And what a circus. Paperwork, documents, archival research. Meticulous wording over his accounting of events. Backtracking through time to recall every fight he’d ever been in, every kill, every reason. The more they dug, the less rigid the archivist became, confidence building as the days passed. Audrey sensed it too.
“I think we’re ready,” she’d insisted a few weeks back.
“Patience is a notoriously difficult concept for humankind,” the archivist had replied, turning a page. She’d huffed at him. “We’re close, but let’s be certain beyond any doubt. There won’t be a second opportunity.”
Another month crawled by. “Close” changed things.
Gunnar became restless faced with real possibility. Listening to them talk, chattering through all their strategies and reasonings, he found himself flirting dangerously close to belief. He ran himself ragged in his cage, stuck between burying any thought of a future with a sky and coming to terms with a life stuck in this nicer fucking box.
Failure would mean silence and solitude, but with no more torpor to turn years into a vague sense of oblivion. Gunnar wiped the sweat from his eyes and started his routine again, still a few hours left until lights off, pushing himself as far as his body could take. It took a shitload of work before he collapsed into an exhausted unconsciousness without dreams. It never lasted for more than a few hours, but it was a reprieve.
But the restlessness in his blood, the part of him that was beast no matter how much Audrey and the archivist wanted to believe differently, remained all too aware of the horizon line. It wanted, scented, chance. And there were nights he gave himself over to it, pacing the square block with all the mindfulness of a rabid dog until his joints ached.
Other times, he thought of Audrey.
He tried not to let himself, but it happened on those longer stretches between visitations. At first it annoyed him, because it wasn’t only his human blood craving socialization. If that were the case, he’d think of the archivist too, and Gunnar never bothered.
It must have been because she was a woman. She smelled nice, wasn’t hard on the eyes at all, and he hadn’t fucked in a decade. The first few times he took himself in hand, he came so fast he didn’t really have time to imagine much of anything. The pure novelty of getting off after his extended sensory deprivation didn’t last.
Then thinking of Audrey with his dick in his hand, really thinking about her, what she might sound like, that blush of hers, her body tight around him in place of his fist . . .
No.
He’d stopped himself from getting off, because that woman wasn’t for him. It didn’t matter how good she smelled, how pretty she was, how soft that blushing skin looked. It didn’t matter that she smiled at him and cared about what happened to him. Hells, it didn’t even matter that she was far and away too good for him, too innocent for him, and everything else that made a good woman like her deserve a fuck of a lot better than a duster like him.
He was a vileblood. She was human. Full stop.
If he ended up having sex with her, he’d sign her death warrant. A slow, miserable death culminating a new, miserable child, just like his monstrous ancestors wanted.
Curses were tricky. Magic didn’t always listen to science, making human contraceptives of any kind, including condoms, useless. There were magical means for preventing pregnancy, but even those were shotty because it all came down to the strength of the conflicting magics.
Lamashtu and Lucifer were a dangerous, stubborn combination. They’d created what might be the most powerful curse ever known before or since the Aperien Event. Even generations diluted, Gunnar’d be damned if he took that kind of risk for the sake of getting his rocks off.
He’d fuck his hand if he felt inclined to squeeze one out, and faceless fantasies did just fine.
Thinking about Audrey and sex in the same breath was self-flagellation.
He chuckled and locked those wild dreams of a woman he wasn’t good enough to touch, even if it wouldn’t kill her, deep down in the dark places of his mind. Self-control had always been his strong suit, and he didn’t think of her again when he needed to take the edge off.
Otherwise, Gunnar worked out, paced, then showered until they cut off his water. Anything to pass the time until he knew.
He waited at the table on a Thursday, nothing unusual about the afternoon, until Audrey and the archivist walked in. Audrey’s scent was distinctly different. He tensed, inhaling deep and parting his lips to taste, rolling the change around in his senses.
Excitement. She vibrated with it as she sat down across from him, her smile brilliant. He’d missed the fresh-baked cookies she’d brought, her scent was that overwhelming, and when she plopped the paper plate down on the table and slid it into his reach, he didn’t move. Audrey glanced at the archivist as he settled in beside her, and he gave a nod.
Her attention settled back on him like the rising sun, and his chest lurched when Audrey said, “We’re ready.”
Arranging an Archival Tribunal wasn’t exactly easy, even with an esteemed Archivist from the Citadel backing the request. There were two more months before the actual hearing started, and for the last week, Audrey and Archivist Theo had made his case to the summoned deities. Apparently, none of the higher-ups gave a shit about his thoughts on this whole thing.
The guards delivered a simple black suit early in the morning, along with a sachet of the best smelling smoking tobacco he’d ever encountered and a note. Gunnar recognized Audrey’s handwriting.
It’s time. Make sure you bring the offering.
That was all she wrote, as if she knew empty platitudes would annoy him more than encourage. There were no other instructions, so he’d tucked the sachet away, assuming the purpose would become obvious later.
Today, the Archival Tribunal would reach a verdict.
He didn’t dare think of an after not including this room; he’d fought hope off for months, and he wouldn’t indulge now. Gunnar dressed. The suit wasn’t a great fit, but when he looked in the mirror, a man watched back instead of an empty shell.
He wet his dark hair, smoothed it back; impressions mattered, he knew. His dark eyes won him no favors, his black blood a life sentence until the Vilestars Accord revision. He combed his hair with his fingers a few more times while he waited to be chained.
Once he was bound, the cell door slid open, and Warden Kushiel waited in the hall alone. Impeccable as always, the angel’s expensive snow-white suit fit him perfectly as if designed to counter Gunnar’s. A show for the Tribunal of how below them a vileblood belonged.
He didn’t care. It was all a bullshit circus show. They’d make his case or they wouldn’t, and a suit wouldn’t be what decided the outcome.
He still chaffed against the collar and tie.
Kushiel looked Gunnar over as if they had all the time in the world, like turning up late to a summoning of six gods was nothing for the angel to be bothered about. Gunnar waited, the obedient dog he was right now, for the invitation to step outside his cell. Damned if he’d give the asshole the satisfaction of messing up on something trivial this late in the game.
Kushiel hummed. “I suppose you’re presentable, as we work with what we have.” His wings shifted, his scent heavy and mixed. Gunnar had trouble parsing all things the angel felt about this moment, they were so tangled and woven in on each other.
He noted the warden seemed to have misplaced his normal arrogant confidence, but Gunnar kept his mouth shut.
“Come. At the very least, we can avoid embarrassing this facility further.” He motioned for Gunnar to exit his cell, and Gunnar fell in line. The angel took the lead. Gunnar followed behind his shoulder, the power move clear as it was pointless, but again, Gunnar had never been an out-of-control monster. “I know well your loathing for me, but many others work here to keep the world outside safe from nightmares.” The warden cast a pointed glance over his shoulder as they arrived at the elevator, his gaze glacial.
Gunnar stepped inside and gave a lazy shrug. “Never gave a shit about you. You were just doing your job, following the Accords, getting your justice.”
Kushiel didn’t look at him as the elevator climbed, one wrist gripped firmly in front of the other.
Gunnar tried to keep his mouth shut, but the rest tumbled out. “At least not until you fucked with her for kicks.”
Kushiel hummed again. “I can see how you’d interpret events that way, but I didn’t break with policy beyond sparing her additional humiliation. If the consequences of her carelessness scared her away from this place, from helping you, well, I’d have considered the world better for it.” He tilted his head, the edge of his lips curling up. “Is this where you threaten me, John Dust 78102?”
“Nah,” he drawled. “She worked too hard to throw this chance away on someone like you.”
“Ah, yes, someone like me.” The angel’s nostril’s flared, his scent flashing hot before he brought himself back under cold control. Without his senses, Gunnar wouldn’t have noticed, as Kushiel’s tone remained unchanged. “Shame me in this, for bleeding to end your Calamity, for suffering under the loss yoursires parsed out with glee. For wishing only to keep the world safe from your kind for eternity.”
Gunnar didn’t bother replying. Audrey would have answered that already and eloquently to the people in charge of his chance, more so than he’d ever manage. They rode the rest of the way in silence.
When the elevator doors opened, Gunnar hissed and squinted, about blinded by the gleaming sun off thousands of gilded and silvered glass panels.
Then the rest hit him.
The roof.
He was outside.
Fresh air. Blue sky sprinkled with fluffy white. Midday sun warm on his skin.
He huffed out a breathless laugh, closing his eyes and filling his lungs to bursting. A breeze tickled his skin, humid and chilly, goosebumps prickling from head to toe. Late fall, he guessed by the smell and temperature. He’d long since lost track of seasons.
He still had to squint as he forced his eyes back open because that was the York Hub during the day—the entire Eastern Seaboard Conjunct, really. The only real holdover from the 21st century in terms of tech, style, and infrastructure, each hub within the ESC was much the same. Towering skyscrapers with metallic, shimmering windows, littered with glowing neon signs and shimmering magical runes from street level to the clouds.
A complicated lattice of stonework made up the rooftop under his heels, magic so intense the air crackled. There were wards, runes, probably some black and blood magic in the mix too. Twenty stories high, more levels burrowed into the bedrock under the bay and rivers that kept Manhattan Penitentiary isolated from the mainland.
The angel watched him take everything in, but for the moment, Gunnar tuned him out. Over his shoulder, a gathering waited a good hundred meters in the distance, near the center of the oblong building’s roof. He tuned that out too.
Gunnar allowed himself to be distracted by the glitz instead, despite the shock of free air against his senses. He’d never seen much of the ESC hubs aside from crawling in the slum alleyways and industrial lanes, the utopia glimmering above his head, far, far out of reach.
Being here, on top of one of the tallest structures in York, well, it was one fuck of a view.
Only the colossal bone obelisks stood taller than the skyscraper city surrounding the Manhattan Penitentiary, the closest anchored in the river to the south. Eerily smooth and featureless, it reminded Gunnar of a giant talon. A massive golden chain attached at the tapered end, which floated upwards against the laws of physics, yet well within the realm of magic. That chain, along with a dozen others like it from each city hub, stretched up to a enormous floating island. And that elevated paradise was reserved for the ESC’s ruthless and efficient dictator: Archlich Lawrence Davids, the only head of an Accorded Territory who’d started his life as a human.
Gunnar chuckled, wondering idly if the monster on high had any idea what the girl who shared his humble origins was up to right underneath his nose.
Kushiel gestured for Gunnar to precede him, the angel a picture of patience and calm now that others watched on. Others, Gunnar thought with a smirk, bigger than Kushiel. Gunnar schooled his expression; ego had no place where he was about to stride.
He doubted anything he’d offer would sway the gods awaiting him, if he could speak at all. Audrey and the archivist had made his case, or they hadn’t. Until now, a creature like him had no rights at all; there was no sense in pretending things had changed in less than a year.
So he hobbled along the roof in his chains, giving the air of a man properly cowed and respectful of his betters, none of which was exactly difficult to put on. All of it was true, anyway.
The air grew charged the farther he walked, making his skin itch and his nose burn. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, sweat tickling his temple. Kushiel at his back wasn’t helping, and Gunnar had the absurd desire to know if the gathered gods affected the angel. The angel had fought in a war that killed off a lot of deities, which meant he’d been in the presence of beings greater than himself before.
Gunnar had never had the displeasure before today, certainly never sought their attention, let alone seeking help. This wasn’t praying. That required, as far as he understood, the right context and the right god to accomplish shit, but it felt adjacent enough to make him uncomfortable.
Then again, it wasn’t really him doing the asking. He tried to catch sight of Audrey or the archivist and frowned. He could make out bodies in the distance, this rooftop center piece they moved toward, but everything was fuzzy. Strange that, given his keen eyesight.
One figure was in focus ahead of the blur, and he stood with the help of a cane in his right hand as they approached, a mutt of indeterminate breed rising with him. He was tall, lean, and night-skinned, making both Gunnar and Kushiel look like snow by comparison. His wide-brimmed straw was an odd sight, but looks tended to be unreliable when it came to Aperiens. He pulled long on his pipe, the exhaled smoke warming the air, and gave a nod in greeting.
“Hello there>>,” the man said, accent thick as he grinned wide, speaking Haitian.
He couldn’t be bothered to speak the designated regional tongue? English in this case, Lawrence Davids’s roots. But more likely, he knew both Gunnar and Kushiel would understand. Anyone with angel blood was a polyglot.
If his situation wasn’t so precarious at the moment, Gunnar might have reminded Kushiel of their commonality.
Instead, he inclined his head respectfully, hoped he didn’t butcher the accent too much when he replied, “Afternoon, sir.>>”
“Good manners, good start, but no need for us to dance around why you’ve come. I’m Papa Legba.>>” Another flash of white teeth as he leaned on his cane, taking Gunnar in from head to toes, not showing the least interest in Kushiel’s presence. “You’d be Jonathan Gunnar.>>”
“Yeah.>>” Gunnar inhaled, not bothering to hide it, finding it strange how unremarkable Papa Legba’s scent was. Straw from his hat, damp fur from the dog sitting obediently at his knee. The tobacco was strongest, along with easy sweat and a tinge of dark rum. Spices he didn’t recognize, which felt like a tease or memories. Gunnar had never been to Haiti.
The underlying scent of power had a flavor he couldn’t name, a warning seated deep in his hindbrain. Papa Legba’s dark eyes twinkled under the quiet assessment.
Then Gunnar remembered the sachet. Fumbling awkwardly in his chains, he retrieved the tobacco pouch and held it out. “Pretty sure this is for you.>>”
Papa Legba nodded, taking it in a weathered, wrinkled hand, the skin around his knuckles dry and cracked. He lifted it to his nose, inhaled deep, then sighed with pleasure. “You’ve got good ones looking out for you, boy. Go on, then.>>”
There was a pop in Gunnar’s ears, and whatever magical veil or spell or force of will that had been keeping the gathering hidden dissipated. Papa Legba hobbled out of the way; Gunnar realized then he’d been blocking the path forward.
Gunnar said, “Thanks,>>” and moved on, pretty sure one shouldn’t dawdle when a powerful Aperien dismissed them.
Kushiel and Papa Legba didn’t speak at all; they must have settled up long before Kushiel came to fetch him from his cell. The angel had likely spent every hour possible up on this roof, arguing for Gunnar to stay under his lock and key forever.
He pushed down the thought of what a victory for Kushiel would mean for him, instead seeking those he called allies. Good ones, that was certain, just like Papa Legba said.
A ritual circle weaved across the roof, because he recognized it now, a summoning circle to get all the deities assembled and channel whatever magic they’d pour into the weight of their decision.
Audrey and Archivist Theodore sat near the circle’s outer edge in plain wooden chairs. A few more Archivists stood around the border, witnesses or facilitators maybe. He really wasn’t sure how all this worked.
Audrey wore her taupe suit. She looked exhausted but smiled when she saw him and gave a little wave. Archivist Theodore nodded, his expression shuttered. Gunnar’s feet moved on their own toward the gathering’s center, his senses inundated with exuded energy.
Six powers from the Icelandic Citadel of Knowledge’s vast pantheon awaited him, their visages blurred.