Chapter 12 #2
His reflection cast its gaze to the vial.
“What, no,” Luce said, furrowing his brow. “I just went through a lot to produce this stuff, and you want me to put it back?”
“You were changed by the process, and your perception of truth shall be changed by the drinking, as your ‘truths’ are only your own.”
Luce blinked. “So the ritual…changed my truth?”
“Drink, Morningstar, and answer your own questions.”
He tossed back the contents of the vial like a shot.
A wave of power rushed through the space with a boom of noise, before the world tilted sharply on its axis.
The nebulous dark shifted wildly around Luce like shadows come alive.
His vision blurred, rendering him completely disoriented as the mirror shattered, bursting into a thousand crystalline shards that glittered like falling stars.
Luce felt himself falling, but had no perception of which direction was up, or even the speed at which he fell. Then colors burst behind his eyes as his head smacked a hard surface, and suddenly the world stopped spinning.
He was back in his ritual room, panting and sweating with the cool breeze fanning over him where he lay sprawled on the wooden floor. Luce could feel his pulse racing and began taking deep, calming breaths while he waited for the nausea to pass.
“Well, that sucked.” He imagined this was what a hangover might feel like, if he could get one.
He had expended a great deal of power; more than he had used for a single ritual in longer than he could recall.
He didn’t remember it taking this much of a toll when he had forged the first piece of the armor—though Luce had been a much younger god then.
Regardless, he knew he would need at least a few days to replenish the stores of his magic before he could even consider forging another piece.
Even now, he couldn’t yet tell if this ritual had been a success.
Once he was able to compose himself, Luce pushed himself up and groaned at the deep ache in his muscles.
It felt like he had just tried to bench press a semi-truck.
He rubbed the back of his neck, stretched his arms up and felt the pop of his joints releasing, and moaned in relief.
Then he caught sight of his reflection on the glass door. Startled, his hands flew to his waist. He was both stunned and gratified to feel cool metal beneath his fingertips. Fastened around his waist was the unmistakable gold and sapphire glint of the Belt of Truth.
“Holy fuck, I’ve still got it.”
Michael knew things were going to go south very quickly if Mags had stolen the book. He didn’t expect it was going to begin during dinner on a Tuesday evening, or that Jehovah was going to overturn a vat of soup in his fury.
The dinner table was a seldom used fixture in their massive dining hall. It was typically only occupied during special occasions and parties, but every so often Queen Mary found herself in the mood for a ‘family sit down dinner’ and the archangels were obliged to join the royals at the table.
Michael and Christos exchanged wary glances as they entered, both stewing over their poorly concealed worries about the situation.
Michael had been making plans with Uriel, his trusted lieutenant and one of his closest companions, to venture into the living world and attempt to contact Mags.
He had to speak with her, to convince her to return the Gospel of Peace before Jehovah noticed it was missing and called her a trial for treason.
Michael caught the stocky angel’s glance as he made his way to his seat, directly across from Jehovah, and Uriel nodded his head slightly.
They were prepared. They would leave under cover of night, to reduce the chances of their absence being noted, and they would be there and back with the book before Jehovah woke for his coffee in the morning. It was a solid plan; a good one.
His plans were derailed during the first course of the evening meal, when the world seemed to tilt sharply on its axis and a ripple of power rolled through the early evening air.
It was like being lapped gently by waves in the ocean; a soft cry of power that skittered down his spine, with the familiar weight of a magical signature he still recalled like it had only been a day. Lucifer…
A spell of that magnitude, strong enough to echo all the way to Heaven’s gates? It had to be something significant; something that would have repercussions for all the realms, mortal or otherwise.
Jehovah lunged up from his seat with a bellow of rage, sweeping his arm across the table in front of him and sending everything in its path scattering.
Glasses and decanters of wine, silverware, bowls, and of course the entire tureen of soup went splashing and clattering across the linen tablecloth and over anyone unfortunate enough to be seated within range of the King.
His wife let out a shriek and jumped up, overturning her chair in her haste to remove her expensive velvet gown from the line of fire. “Jeho!”
“Shut up! You foolish woman, so caught up in gowns and gossip,” he snarled, gripping the edge of the table as if he might topple it, but visibly restraining himself.
He took several deep, ragged breaths, and clenched the table hard enough that the wood groaned under his hands.
“You have no idea what has just happened, the calamity unfolding under our very noses!”
Queen Mary recoiled, flushed with embarrassment at her public scolding. “Well! I suppose I shall retire for the evening, if I’m merely to be a burden here.”
She gathered her skirts and swished from the room imperiously. Jehovah watched her go, a frown on his lips and a touch of remorse in his deep blue eyes. Then his gaze hardened, and he whirled on Michael.
“I have it on good authority that Mary Magdalene was seen entering the Vault of Relics, and that later the Gospel of Peace was discovered to be missing.”
Michael managed to contain his reaction, if only barely. He knew better than to try to speak now and simply clenched his jaw and waited for the rest of the tirade. The King was many things, but concise was not one of them.
“Let me be explicitly clear, so there may be no mistake. Despite her standing and relationship with my son,” Christos flinched, but Jehovah barreled on, “Mary Magdalene is hereby and immediately to be considered persona non grata in this Kingdom, apart from her trial by fire.”
Christos shot to his feet, horrified. “Father, please—”
There was no warning. One moment, Christos was upright and pleading, the next he sprawled on his back, a stinging red handprint blooming across his tanned cheek as he looked up at his father.
Brown eyes wide with shock, he touched shaking fingers to his rapidly swelling lip.
They came away stained golden with blood.
“Do not dare to argue, Christos. You may be my son, but your role in this remains to be determined. There are three keys to that vault, and mine is always accounted for. Anyone who may have aided Mary in her treachery is under equal suspicion and thereby house arrest.”
Michael tensed, frowning at the floor. He’d need to delegate to Uriel then, and make sure Jophiel would—
“But not you, Michael.”
His head jerked up, confusion furrowing his brow.
“Oh, no.” Jehovah narrowed his eyes. “No, I can’t lock away my best tracker when I have a fugitive to apprehend.”
Michael swallowed hard, and nodded sharply.
He wasn’t a fool; this was the same as it had been before with Lucifer—a test of his loyalty and resolve.
Even as the devoted soldier within him yearned to prove himself still faithful, part of him recoiled in horror at the thought of turning Mary over to that fate.
“You will surrender your key to the Vault, and to the Gates,” Jehovah continued sternly. Though his chest tightened at the implication, Michael knew he had no grounds for an argument. “You are not above suspicion, Michael—a position you find yourself courting unfortunately often.”
The insinuation stung, but the warrior simply gave another terse nod. Speaking was liable to get him into more trouble, and what would he honestly say? He couldn’t in good conscience deny that he seemed to have a habit of mixing with heretics.
“Go, Michael,” Jehovah decreed. “Leave immediately and take only as many soldiers as you absolutely require. Find that damned girl and drag her to me at once! Do not fail me in this.”
With a deep bow and short glance at Christos’s troubled expression, Michael hurried from the room as fast as his long legs would carry him, Uriel hot on his heels.
The situation felt as ridiculous as it did dire as they went racing down the hall, covered in tomato bisque, with Jehovah’s orders hanging over them like an ultimatum.
Jophiel entered the bath chamber with a swish in his walk and a scowl on his pouting lips.
“You’ll get wrinkles frowning like that,” a smooth voice echoed from further within the room, where Gabriel disrobed beside a powder blue chaise.
“Don’t say things like that,” Jophiel gasped, slender fingers flying up to prod gently at his forehead, needlessly smoothing skin that had never seen a wrinkle or a blemish. “I have good reason to frown, thank you very much.”
“The soup,” Gabe agreed solemnly, gesturing at his own discarded, orange-stained shirt with a grimace.
“The soup!” Jophiel repeated, hands thrown up in a gesture of frustration. “And it’s not like I can complain to the Almighty for running up my dry-cleaning bill.”
“You could,” Gabe mused as Jophiel crossed the room to sink onto the chaise beside him. “Though you might be reduced to a smoldering pile of ash, so probably not worth it.”
He bent at the waist and leaned toward Jophiel, stopping within a few inches of the other man’s face, smirking. “You’re prettier in this form, after all.”
Jophiel smiled. “Even wearing soup on my Versace?”
Gabe settled on the lounge beside him, trailing a finger down the blonde’s chest to outline the splash of bisque. “I think the soup actually improves the aesthetic. Very Avant Garde.”
The blonde laughed, and Gabriel felt a strange twisting sensation in his chest. How odd, to feel genuine affection like this after so long. Jophiel draped an arm over Gabe’s shoulders, planting a kiss on his smooth cheek, then sighed.
“Do you think Michael and Uriel will be successful?”
The other man scoffed. “Maybe. I think it’s more likely they’ll betray us as well.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. They’re thorns in the side of Heaven. Nuisances to everything we hold dear.”
“You’re the nuisance.” Jophiel smirked, leaning closer so his lips brushed Gabe’s ear. Gabe turned, twisting to face him with a look of mild amusement.
“Me? Never.” he grinned. “I just like to have a little fun now and then; I’m not trying to wreak havoc.”
“Aren’t you?” Jophiel teased, and Gabe frowned. “Oh, come on, Gabe. You’re the last person I’d expect to see looking so serious.”
He slipped from the chaise and turned to face Gabriel, offering his hands to pull the other man from the bench. Gabe arched a brow but slid his hands into Jophiel’s and allowed him to drag him up. With a grin, the blond yanked sharply and sent them both toppling into the bathing pool.
The water was warm, but the shock of being abruptly immersed was jarring enough to make Gabe gasp. “Joph what—!”
“You like to have fun!” Jophiel grinned, water dragging his pale fringe into his eyes and making him slick it back. “Sometimes that means being spontaneous, Gabe.”
“I was planning on having a bath, but not with my wool slacks on!”
Ice blue eyes seemed to darken. “You could take them off. I certainly wouldn’t complain.”
“No,” Gabe laughed. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
Jophiel grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for knowing what he wants.”
“Touché,” Gabe grinned back. He swiftly unbuttoned his fly, sliding the fitted slacks down his long legs before tossing them onto the tile in a sodden heap of black fabric. “Come on then, you next.”
He didn’t need to prompt him; Jophiel was already wiggling out of his own clothes.
“You’re very eager,” Gabe laughed, sweeping his own dark fringe out of his eyes.
“It’s not often I get you to unwind with me,” Jophiel reasoned, pointing an accusatory finger at the other man. “You’ve been so distracted lately.”
“It’s Foster,” Gabe admitted, sobering slightly. “He’s been going through some things, and Lucifer came to visit him a few days ago. It really upset him.”
“Really?” Jophiel asked, surprised. “Glory told me Luce banned them all from visiting him and hasn’t seen his son in years.”
“Fifteen, actually.”
“That’s awful.”
“I know.” Gabe sighed and splashed water on his face. He scrubbed gently, trying to loosen the tension in his brow before it could build into another stress headache. “I try to be there for him, but with everything that’s going on I can’t help but worry.”
“You don’t need to be his dad, Gabe.” Jophiel spoke quietly, as if unsure of himself.
Gabe frowned. “I’m not trying to be. I just want to make sure I’m not… I don’t know, Joph. I wonder sometimes if I’m doing the right thing with him, is all. This ritual…”
“It’s what he wants, right?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then you’re right to help him.”
“Yeah…I know. I also can’t help but wonder how tonight’s events will change the game.”
“What were tonight’s events?” Jophiel swam in lazy circles, drifting ever closer to Gabe with each circuit.
“Well,” Gabe reached out to snag the blond and drag him in closer. “I suppose we’ll hear all about it when Michael and Uriel return from their adventure.”
Jophiel smiled, letting himself be caught up against Gabe with little reluctance. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Gabe snorted, and Jophiel grinned, nuzzling into his neck. “You should know this by now.”
“Of course, Gabe. Whatever you say.”