Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Foster waited impatiently for Gabe’s portal to form, the rift in the air growing wider before the other man’s silhouette appeared in the glimmering gap. Gabe slowly came into view, poking first his head through with a roguish grin before the rest of him followed.
“Foster Flake,” there was a smile in his words, but Foster was not smiling.
“It’s interesting, Gabe,” he began speaking without preamble, too frustrated to restrain himself. “I went to the Church yesterday, and I spoke with Praeceptor Sceros, and it’s just so strange—”
“What are you rambling about, Foster?” Gabe sighed. “Also, your manners are terrible. Hi, how are you? Yes, I would love a drink, thank you.”
“No drinks, Gabe, and no more bullshit,” Foster snapped. “You told me these rituals were from the Gospel of Lazarus, so I have to assume you’ve read it. I would also love to read it, but the book is missing.”
“Ah.” Gabe sank into one of the armchairs in Foster’s living room, summoning his own glass of wine with a snap of his fingers. “Yes, I took it.”
“So I have to wonder—” Foster caught himself mid-sentence, and the anger rushed out of him like a deflating balloon. “Wait, you what?”
“I took it,” Gabe repeated, casually sipping his pinot noir. “It doesn’t belong in the hands of mortals.”
Foster paused for a long moment, processing this information.
It seemed the praeceptor had at least a portion of his crazy stories right, after all.
He took a seat in the other armchair, steepling his fingers together and pressing until the tips of his skin went white, while counting slowly to ten in his head.
When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. “May I please read it?”
“You don’t need to, really,” Gabe dismissed the request. “I’ve studied it cover to cover; I have it memorized.”
“Yes,” Foster continued to speak in his carefully modulated tone, though frustration was straining it. “But I haven’t, and I’m the one performing these rituals, right?”
Gabe beamed. “And you’re doing splendidly with my guidance!”
“Gabe!” Foster groaned. “Can you please, just once, see me as an equal and let me read the damned thing myself? I’d rather go into these things feeling prepared, not waiting for you to dole out scraps of information when it suits you!”
The older man sighed, setting down his glass of wine and leaning towards Foster. “You will not like what you read.”
“That’s for me to decide,” Foster rebuffed. “You can’t treat me like a child and then hand me such heavy obligations.”
“You’re right,” Gabe sighed, leaning back in the seat. He picked up his glass and lifted it to the light, examining the dark liquid within. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He extended his free hand, palm up, and a small, hidebound journal with a cover worn from age and years of handling appeared. He tossed the little book to Foster, who snatched it gratefully from the air.
He opened the book carefully and began to read.
The pages within were delicate and inked in old Hebrew.
His translation was slow and clunky at first, since he rarely used the language, but he began to piece things together.
He skimmed through crossed out sections, annotated with frustrated notes on why or how another test had failed, focusing on the parts of the diary that seemed to denote proper rituals.
There was the first ritual, The Sacrifice of the Innocent, and he recognized the runes and sigils Gabe had directed him to paint. He skimmed a few more pages, mostly scribbled over with curses and ranting, and all the while Gabriel watched him carefully, still sipping at his wine.
Foster turned the page and his fingers stilled, his heart squeezing painfully before settling in his gut.
He blinked, closed the cover, set the ancient book on his lap, and rubbed his eyes vigorously.
He read it wrong, obviously. Or mistranslated it; old Hebrew was tricky.
The next ritual couldn’t be that, anything but that.
Foster took a breath, and then another, and reopened the grimoire to the page he had marked. The Sacrifice of the Elder. If he knew Gabe at all, he could guess who the angel had in mind for the ritual. He looked up sharply at Gabriel, who was still watching him intently.
“No,” Foster ground out once he was able to find his voice.
“Yes.”
“No!” Foster repeated, bolting up from his chair and throwing the book down in his place. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Because I knew you would balk,” the angel sighed.
Foster’s gut twisted as he began to pace. “Did you plan this? Handpick people from my everyday life? First Piper, and now Senora Delgado?”
“Of course it wasn’t planned,” Gabe snorted, “but you have to admit the old witch is the perfect candidate. With power of her own, the ritual will be bolstered.”
He had agreed to these rituals before he understood the cost, and Foster could feel the world crumbling around him at this revelation. “I can’t. You can’t ask me to do that.”
“I never said this would be easy, my boy." Gabe frowned sternly, running a hand through his meticulously styled hair and then immediately flattening it back into place. "There's a reason not just anyone can do this, why it takes someone special.”
Foster paced back and forth, clearly distressed, and tried to rationalize his feelings with what he had learned and was hearing.
“This isn't just a ritual; it's a test of will. You can go through all the motions, but it will not matter unless you do it with conviction. You need to stay focused, or it's all for nothing."
Foster cringed away. "But does it have to be her? It would be easier if it was a stranger."
"Then your ritual would be flawed. The closer the connection, the more power drawn from the sacrifice.
Such are the laws since the beginning of time.
Think back to Cain and Abel. Would a lamb have been enough?
No. It isn't meant to be easy. If it were, everyone would bring their loved ones back from the dead. "
“I don’t want it to be her!” Foster roared, heart aching. “She’s the closest thing I have to family, Gabe!”
“First of all, that hurts.” He pressed a palm to his chest, and Foster scoffed. Gabe continued, “Secondly, we just had this conversation. It’s about what you want more—a woman who lives downstairs and is ‘almost like family’? Or your mother?”
The younger man turned away, trembling with rage and despair. “I don’t think my mother would want me to become a murderer.”
“Well, there it is then,” Gabe’s tone went cool and clinical, his expression glazing over in the way that indicated he had checked out of a conversation. “You found your limit, and we won’t cross the line. Fair enough.”
Foster relaxed slightly, even though the thought of giving up on his mother…was unfathomable. But he couldn’t do this. Piper…that had been mercy. He had spared her from suffering and pain and an inevitable awful demise.
This would be murder, plain and simple.
Senora Delgado had a tricky hip, but she had an unknown number of full years ahead. He couldn’t steal that life from her in exchange for his mother’s; Angela would be disgusted to return to a son who was so cruel.
And it would change him, he could feel that.
If he crossed this line, it would dig deeper into something dark that had been settling around his heart ever since the night of Piper’s ritual.
Even now, some tender part of him was tempted.
He yearned so desperately that for a moment, he wanted to take back his refusal and force himself to follow through. Instead, he steeled himself.
“Thank you, Gabe.” He turned back around, looking at the man with a mixture of gratitude and remorse. “I just… regardless of my mother’s disapproval, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
“Of course, Foster.” Gabe softened, gaze refocusing as he extended a hand to Foster and pulled him into a tight hug. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose so many centuries apart from the world have made me forget how strong the bonds of mortals can be.”
Foster stepped out of the embrace. “How do you mean?”
“Well, it may sound callous, but I suppose the longer you live, the more irrelevant mortality seems?” He shrugged. “I haven’t cared about a mortal since…well, since your mother. I forget that such a short span of time can be so precious, when you have so little of it in the first place.”
Foster mulled the statement over. “I guess that makes sense.”
Even if it did make his stomach twist like a live snake. He couldn’t imagine having such disregard for life, but maybe it couldn’t be helped once you were as old as Gabe.
“Now, let’s put all this negativity behind us.” The angel smiled, with a tinge of sadness. “Why don’t we go grab a drink?”
“Yeah,” Foster sighed, “I could use one right about now.”
“Come on, then!” Gabe snapped his fingers and the door swung wide, and he led the way out into the hallway. “Ugh, I always forget how tragic your apartment is. You still won’t take my offer of putting in a word with that nice realtor woman in the northeast?”
“No.” Foster smirked, watching with amusement as Gabe prodded the splotchy wallpaper with one finger, squinting, and gingerly swiped along the dusty, wobbling banister.
“Look at this!” he yelped, holding up his finger, caked in grime. “You’re so lucky you don’t get sick, no wonder that little girl had lung cancer!”
Foster sobered, grin falling. “Yeah, no wonder…”
Gabe frowned. “Ah. I’ve put my foot directly into my mouth. Apologies.”
“It’s fine,” Foster shrugged, adopting an air of indifference despite the uncomfortable sensation prickling at the back of his neck. “Let’s just get that drink.”