Chapter 9 #2
The air seemed to hum with power in this room, the books and scrolls contained within emitting a cacophony of various energies, and it made him pause to even out his breathing.
His eyes skimmed the shelves, searching for the one book he desperately hoped to see sitting in its place.
His heart sank the moment his eyes lit upon the empty space between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the codices of Thomas’ Gospel.
“Oh no,” he said softly.
A broad hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed—either in reassurance or to help Michael ground himself, Christos couldn’t be sure. He felt a bit like his world had just flipped on its head and he wondered if this was how Michael had felt those long eons ago, when Lucifer—
He shook off the thought. “This is not good.”
“No,” Michael agreed, “it is not. But I wonder…”
“Yes?” Christos realized his hands were trembling, and he curled his fingers tightly to stop it.
“Anyone who knows this sigil can open this door.”
“Right, of course.” Christos turned to face the angel, curiosity turning to creeping realization as Michael continued.
“But the vault itself requires a key. And only three people possess a copy of that key. Myself...”
“My father,” Christos continued, picking up the thread, “and…”
“Raphael.”
Christos unclenched his fist, and they both stared down at the key laid innocently over his scar.
Raphael was carefully transposing his ruined notes to a new sheet of paper—bent over the page and fastidiously checking and double-checking the copy to avoid any mistakes—when a resounding boom echoed through the otherwise silent library.
He jumped in alarm, his arm jerking and leaving a fresh swath of dark ink across his new page. He sighed at the sight, but quickly shoved his notes to the side, rising to investigate the source of the noise as Titanus approached in a hobbling run, growling and snarling.
Raphael managed about two steps before Michael strode out from between the stacks looking furious, Christos hustling in his wake to keep pace with the towering angel. Raphael’s heart gave a stutter, and his skin went slick with a sheen of sweat.
Michael seldom made that face, and when he did, it was never good for the target of his rage. Raphael was a trained soldier—by Michael himself, in fact—but he had always been more scholar than warrior, and he knew he stood no chance whatsoever against someone of Michael’s caliber.
“M-Michael!” he stammered, backing up into his desk and knocking over the cup that held his pens. They scattered and rolled across the wood surface and tumbled to the floor as Michael kept advancing on him. Raphael’s knees and nerves grew weaker with every bit of ground his friend gained.
The blond emanated a visible aura of power as he reached Raphael and grabbed him by the front of his robes, lifting him clean off his feet and pressing him to the wall with a low growl.
Titanus answered with a growl of his own, until Michael shot him a look so domineering, the gargoyle yipped and fled back to his cushion.
“We have some questions,” Christos declared, and Raphael whimpered.
“I’m sure I can answer them on the ground?” he suggested, only for Michael to narrow his eyes and press him harder into the stone. “Or not! I can answer them up here, as well.”
“You mentioned Mags had been here recently,” Christos continued, steadfastly ignoring the unusual nature of this conversation, “and that she had been inside the vault.”
Raphael nodded. “Yesterday, around noon. I remember because I had just finished my hummus and—”
“Did she leave here with anything?” the young prince interrupted, not particularly interested in the angel’s lunch. “Something from the vault, specifically.”
Raphael tried to school his features into something resembling neutrality. “No.” He shook his head, only for Michael to shake him in response.
“Do not lie to us, Rapha,” he spoke quietly, calmly, but there was a threat slipped under that command. The librarian trembled.
“I didn’t see her with anything when she left,” he said sincerely, and it was the truth. Anything Mags might have taken with her had been safely stowed inside the bag she had carried on her shoulder, and he was hardly going to search a lady’s bag. Especially the consort of the prince.
Michael squinted suspiciously as he dropped his friend unceremoniously to the floor. “Half-truths are lies of omission, Raphael.”
The librarian said nothing as he picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his robes, then collected his writing instruments and replaced them in their holder.
“Perhaps,” he spoke at last, not looking up from his hands as he worked, “there are sometimes occasions in which a lie of omission becomes a necessity.”
The library swallowed his quiet words, taking them and tucking them away as if to make his heresy merely another tale on countless shelves.
“That is a very bold statement,” Christos spoke just as softly, eyes flashing with something close to anger, “and a very presumptuous one.”
“Who are you to decide such things, Rapha?” Michael asked in a low, dangerous tone.
“Who am I?” his tone was tight. “I’m the one who had to help Mary tear apart these shelves decades ago, looking for a way to save the newborn Prince of Hell, and the one who tried to find a way to save its Queen.
I’m the one who labors over these books and tomes for hints and clues despite the risk it lays upon me. ”
Raphael turned away, pacing restlessly as the old wounds reopened deep inside.
“I am the one—” he spun back to face Michael, “—who stayed by your side and grieved for both of us when one by one, our friends defected. The one who stuffed your reckless, obstinate mouth with food and ambrosia when you gave up and wanted only to rot.”
The larger man recoiled, casting his gaze aside with shame at the dark memories Raphael dragged up.
“I am the one,” Raphael said, tugging his braid where it hung over his shoulder, some of his anger giving way to sadness, “who is tired of burying friends, and seeing them suffer.”
Michael looked stricken. “Why didn’t you ever tell me how it weighed on you, all this time?”
Raphael softened. “What good would it have done, old friend? Except to add to your own burdens? No, you have your demons, and these are mine. I have never approved of what happened to Lucifer, or later to his Fallen.”
Christos winced. “You are not alone in that regard.”
Raph brushed the tail of his braid over his palm, closing his eyes to center himself as he said, simply, “I am not sorry for what I have done, even if it is treason.”
His companions went very still, and Michael cast a quick look around them to ensure they were alone.
“I would be very careful of saying such things, Raphael,” Christos said, looking suddenly very tired.
The angel fixed him with a hard stare. “As if I haven’t had to be cautious all these eons?”
The Prince scowled, hands flexing into fists. “You don’t want to experience what my father will do to those who betray this kingdom.”
“You need not warn me, Christos, for I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“And still, you condemn the love of my life to such a fate!” His calm composure broke, and Christos strode forward until he was toe to toe with the angel. “You know what happens, and you helped her do it anyway!”
Raphael fixed him with a wrecked look and rested his hands gently on Christos’s shoulders. “She knew what she was doing. She knows it’s the right thing to do.”
The younger man trembled. “I will lose her, Raphael. Even if he doesn’t kill her, he will never let me follow her into exile.”
“I know,” he said softly. Christos came apart, tears welling up and spilling over, his gentle sobs the only sound disrupting the otherwise absolute quiet of the library. Raphael enfolded him in a tight embrace, the threat of tears shining in his own eyes.
Michael had to look away, his own heart aching for the young prince.
It took everything in him not to rampage through the room and topple the useless towers of books.
All this wisdom, all these tales and accounts of history, and nothing for them to do but sit here and wait for the world to come crashing down.
It was a hopelessness he had felt only once before, had hoped never to feel again. Even now, his fingers twitched at the memory of closing over Gabriel’s throat, the fury he had smothered at the angel’s casual disregard and veiled threats.
He met Raphael’s gaze over Christos’s shoulder, seeing a similar resigned anger in those emerald eyes, and decided they were overdue for a chat.
Gabriel could see the desire to rattle the foundations of the room written clearly on Michael’s face, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the furious warrior managed to reign himself in. If he hadn’t, Gabriel would have come toppling down with the books from his perch on top of the shelf.
He was occasionally prone to sprawling up near the stained-glass ceiling when he wanted a little bit of peace and quiet.
It was sheer luck that he had been lounging here, casually flipping through what the humans considered a “classic” tale, when the comfortable silence was so rudely disrupted by a soldier throwing a tantrum.
How could he resist listening in on whatever had managed to rile the perpetually stoic Michael, he of the Glorious Elite, precious darling of Jehovah? Anything that could ruffle those stone feathers had to be more interesting than Macbeth.
And lo and behold, they confirmed what he had long suspected.
Raphael was a heretic, and Mary Magdalene was not to be trusted.
Ever since The Lamb had granted her divinity, Gabriel had felt a sense of unease around the young woman.
Her face and figure were surely lovely, but the company she kept boded ill for Heaven and, clearly, she had been corrupting the prince.
“We cannot speak of this again,” Christos finally composed himself and spoke, confirming Gabriel’s fears. “All we can hope for at this point is that we will be able to return the book to its rightful place before my father notices it’s missing.”
Gabriel frowned. Well, that was certainly not the right course of action.
Apparently, he’d have to take this news to Jehovah himself, if anything was to be done to prevent the utter disaster unfolding as they spoke.
How could Christos allow his little girlfriend to threaten everything they held dear?
The repercussions alone could very well destroy everything, not to mention what Lucifer could do with his powers supplemented…
His ‘brothers’ in wings escorted the prince from the library, and Gabriel used the brief diversion to unfurl his ebony wings and kick off from the bookshelf, spiraling up through the skylight and winging rapidly towards the throne room. Maybe if he hurried, something could still be done.