Angels on Fire (14 page)

“You know I don’t like sharing you with anybody...”

“No more than I like sharing
you,”
he replied pointedly.

Lucy sat up, looking him eye-to-eye. “What do you mean by that? You’re not sharing me with anyone!”

“Oh yeah? What about that space-case in your apartment?”

“Joth?”
Lucy stared at Nevin for a second, and then began to snicker. “You think I’m doing
Joth?!?”

Nevin shifted about uncomfortably. He never did have much of a sense of humor when it came to his self-image. “Well,
aren’t
you?” he replied tersely.

“No!”
she replied, nearly choking on her laughter.

“Then why is he staying with you?”

“Because he has nowhere else to go,” she replied truthfully.

“Who is this guy, anyway? Where do you know him from?”

“What difference does it make?” Lucy retorted.

Nevin softened his demeanor, smiling solicitously while he stroked her hair. “I don’t want you being taken advantage of, that’s all. This guy could be a psycho or something.”

“Joth is
not
a psycho. Believe me, I know him better than anyone else in the world.”

“Where’s he from?”

“He’s—he’s from back home.”

“Arkansas?”

“Uh, yeah. I recognized him on the street. The poor guy’s kinda retarded. I knew him when we were kids.”

“How’d he end up in New York?”

“I don’t know, Nevin—how does
anybody
get to be in New York? It doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s here. I’m just giving him a place to stay until—”

“Until what?”

“Until somebody comes and gets him.”

Ezrael was sitting in the living room, reading aloud from the
New York Times
to Joth, who was perched on the window sill, looking out at the traffic on the street below. Both angel and Muse looked up at the sound of Lucy’s key in the lock.

“I was wondering when you would get back,” Ezrael said, folding the newspaper. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better!” Lucy grinned, her mussed and her eyes a touch unfocused.

“You certainly seen ebullient for someone who just lost their job. What were they putting in those drinks of yours?”

“Who cares about that?” she said with a shrug. “Nevin and I are back together!”

“Oh,” Ezrael said, careful to sound noncommittal. “How did
that
happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“He found me at the bar and we started talking—he told me he was sorry—that he made a mistake—and then one thing led to another, and well, I took him back.”

Joth hopped down off the window ledge, fixing Lucy with its colorless gaze. “This Nevin is the deathling that hurt you.”

“Yes. But you don’t understand how people are, Joth—what it’s like between men and women, especially when they’re in love. Isn’t it
wonderful?”

“No,” Joth replied matter-of-factly.

Lucy’s smile faltered. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

Ezrael hurried to put himself between Lucy and the angel. “Lucy, you don’t realize what you’re doing—! You’ve been drinking! It’s not wise for mortals to ask an angel questions if they don’t want to hear the answers!”

“Nevin does not love you,” Joth blurted, as if commenting on the color of the sky.

“That’s bullshit!” Lucy replied angrily. “He does
too
love me! What do
you
know about how he feels about me?”

“Oy.” Ezrael winced and covered his face with his hands.

“Nevin is claiming he loves you to keep you from becoming dangerous to him,” Joth said, its voice as pleasant and lacking emotional inflection as a telephone operator’s.

“Shut up!”
Lucy shouted. “Shut
up, damn you!”
Her protests did not seem to have an effect on the angel, who continued droning on as before.

“He is afraid you might call the police and report him. He thinks if he returns half of the art he stole, the police will not believe your story if you decide to file assault charges. He wants to keep control over you, to make sure you do not ruin his chances at success. That is also why he coerced the deathling called Gwenda into agreeing to allow you back into the group show.”

Lucy felt the color rising in her cheeks until her head seemed like it was on fire. She could not believe what was coming out of Joth’s mouth—she
refused
to believe. She clapped her hands over her ears to try to keep the angel’s voice out, but it didn’t work.

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” she yelled, pummeling the angel’s chest and shoulders with her fists, nearly blinded by tears of anger and shame.

Joth did not flinch, nor did it blink or try to move away or raise a hand in protest or defense. It merely stood there and absorbed her anger and abuse without comment or reaction, until she finally exhausted herself.

“Get him out of here,”
she said, pointing a trembling finger at the angel. “I don’t want him around
anymore! I’ve put up with
all
I’m going to—now get him
out
of here!”

“B-but—” Ezrael stammered.

“I don’t want to hear
any arguments!” she snapped as she stalked out of the living room. “I’ve baby-sat him long enough! Now it’s up to
you
to look after him! He’s your ‘kin,’ not mine, anyway!” The slam of the bedroom door signaled the conversation was at an end.

Joth turned to stare at Ezrael, a querulous look on its androgynous face. “Why did Lucy behave in such a manner? She asked me what I knew of her relationship with Nevin—and I answered with the truth.”

Ezrael shook his head ruefully as he reached for his gym bag. “You might know all that exists in Creation, my friend, but you have a
lot
to learn about women.”

Chapter Thirteen

“It’s not much,” Ezrael said, gesturing to the interior of his apartment as he unlocked the door, “but its home. Mi
casa es su casa,
my friend.”

The Muse’s apartment was a large studio located near Gramercy Park. Or, it would have been if it weren’t crammed to the rafters with bookcases, artist portfolios, archivist’s boxes and
objets d’art.
The only areas that were free of clutter were the tiny kitchenette and the equally minuscule bathroom just off the entrance. Even the lofted bed, built over an antique roll-top desk, had a stack of books serving as a head board.

Joth moved through the stacks of magazines and old books as easily as a cat, despite its wingspan. The angel did not stir so much as a molecule of dust as it passed. “There is
great
power here,” the elohim said, its voice worshipful.

“Yes, there is,” Ezrael replied, not without some pride. “I have several climate-controlled storage lockers salted around the world—but these are the treasures I hold dearest, the ones I feel the need to keep close by me.”

Joth ran its fingertips over the spines of the books in bookcases that lined every wall. The look on the angel’s face was that of a hungry man standing outside a bakery shop.
“Alice’s Adventures Underground...Moby Dick...Paradise Lost...”
Joth intoned, its eyes rolled back in its head as if reciting a rosary.

“All first editions,” Ezrael said as he removed his copy of Carroll from its place on the bookshelf, smiling at the book as if it was a favored child. “Within the merging of paper, ink and idea, a world is born, one that comes to life within those who read it. And while there is power in even the cheapest pasteboard knock-off, there is something—
unique
—that remains within these first editions. Within these pages can be heard the squall of newborn worlds.”

Joth opened one of the larger, older portfolios, going straight to a series of charcoal sketches sealed in airtight plastic pouches.

“Ah! The Da Vinci,” Ezrael said knowingly. “I should have known an elohim would be drawn to it as a bee to clover.”

“These are from the hand of one of the Blessed,” Joth’s voice was as awed as that of a pilgrim before a shrine.

“There are works from
many
of the Blessed in this room,” Ezrael said quietly, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I knew them all; some were my lovers, others my friends, some—like Leonardo—were descendants I sired on deathling women. All of them I did my best to protect and nurture.

“I’ve tended to favor the graphic arts—painters, engravers, sculptors, illustrators and the like. I’ve had the odd author and musician under my wing, but I’ve enjoyed the most success with painters, by far. Even when I failed to protect my charges’ physical selves, I’ve made sure their posterity would be far greater than anything they might have dreamt of while alive. Van Gogh is probably my greatest achievement in that regard.”

Ezrael picked up another one of the larger portfolios, allowing even more Hogarths, Klimts, Breughels, Goyas, and Blakes to spill forth. “If the museums of the world had any idea of what I have stashed away, they’d all chip in to have me killed—since there’s not enough money in the world to buy a collection such as mine,” Ezrael chuckled. “But the worth of these pictures goes far beyond mere gold and silver. These are handiwork of the Blessed—those whom the Clockwork has imbued with a spark from the Fires of Creation.

“The Blessed see with the eyes of God, speak with the tongue of God, write with the hand of God, and hear with the ears of God. It is my duty to guard those anointed ones, to ensure that they realize their potential and bring their gift into the world, where others may be inspired by it. It is a noble calling, but far from an easy one. For as many successes I have known, there have been thrice as many failures. Not every deathling Blessed by the Clockwork has the strength to bear such weight. Some go mad, others lack the courage to fully embrace their gift, while others are seduced or destroyed by the Machine.”

“The Machine,”
whispered Joth, lifting its face to Ezrael’s. The angel’s eyes were no longer without color. There was a fleck of black lurking within their depths, like a drop of crude oil floating in a glass of spring water.

The Muse shifted uncomfortably and quickly looked away.”Yes, the Machine. For just as you were drawn to the power locked within those drawings, so are Infernals such as Meresin drawn to the Blessed. But their instinct is not to protect and nurture, but to destroy and pollute. If they cannot seduce the Blessed into corrupting their gift, then they destroy them, either from without or within.

“Thousands of Shakespeares, Mozarts, Hemingways and Monets have died before their genius could make itself known; the victims of despair, alcohol, or badly cut smack. Such are the dangers of free will. Take Lucy for example—”

Joth lifted its head suddenly, like a deer startled at a watering hole, and fixed Ezrael with its polluted gaze, the artwork completely forgotten. “Where should I take her?”

“It’s merely a figure of speech, little brother. I am just pointing out that Lucy is Blessed. Although she has yet to realize the gift within her, the potential is there. It’s only a question of whether she has the strength to take that final step and allow her gift to take her to where she needs to be.”

“I do not understand—why would one of the Blessed reject their gift?”

Ezrael smiled and ran a hand through his snow-white hair. “Ah, it’s that tricky free will thing again, I’m afraid. The final surrender to the gift is often a difficult one for deathlings to make. You see, sometimes the gift is so powerful it can destroy the Blessed if they are not strong enough to absorb its glory. Until the time Lucy fully accepts her gift, she is vulnerable to the Machine. In its various guises, using those deathlings under its control, it shall place as many obstacles in her way as possible. It will tempt her with lucrative but soul-less jobs that will sap her of the time and energy needed for her art; it will frustrate her by rewarding the inferior; it will attempt to seduce her into corrupting her craft by rewarding her for laboring on derivative works instead of her own ideas; and, if all else fails, it will attempt to destroy her physical self by driving her into poverty or steering her towards those who will exploit her weaknesses, whether they are drink, drugs, or a need to feel loved.

“Lucy is in a particularly fragile stage—like a tree that has begun to blossom. Should there come a sudden freeze, the buds will wither and die. She needs to be carefully watched over, if her gift is to bear its fruit. And I do not know if I am up to such a challenge. Meresin was right about one thing—I
am
getting old. It is time I passed along the mantle to a younger Muse, one I can teach my magick to.”

“Will I protect Lucy when I am the new Muse, Ezrael?”

“Perhaps, my friend. But that choice is not mine to make, but yours.”

“How can I decide to become a Muse?”

“Joth, the choice must be made by you. Do
you
want to be a muse?”

“If that is what you say, I shall be a Muse.”

“That’s
not
how it works, Joth!” Ezrael said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “The decision has to be
yours
—not what you think someone else wants!”

It was clear this discussion was already taxing Joth’s limited attention span, as the angel was back to studying the contents of Ezrael’s apartment. It seemed drawn to a bookcase cluttered with various mystical objects, such as an Orusha horse-tail flail, a Zuni medicine rattle, and a peeled willow wand.

“I sense this thing is of power, but of a source both alien, yet familiar to me,” whispered Joth, pointing to a small enameled tin box of Chinese origin that rested beside a dried monkey’s paw. The darkness in the depths of the elohim’s eyes seemed to grow larger as it stared at the colorful container.. “I feel the urge to open up the box, yet at the same time my very essence cries out in anguish.”

As Joth reached for the box, Ezrael leapt forward, swatting the elohim’s hand.
“Don’t touch that!”
he shouted. The Muse removed the box from the shelf, holding it tightly against his chest. “You’re changing faster than I realized. That is cause for concern. As for what is within this box—well, that is a story in itself.” The Muse glanced up at Joth, as if weighing what he was about to say. “I told Lucy the tale of how I became mortal, but I did not tell how I came to fall into this world, because I knew she could not possibly understand the nature of the Clockwork. But you—well, you are a different matter. But before I tell you my story I must ask you a question, Joth. Do you remember what led to your own fall?”

The angel frowned and shook its golden head.

“I thought not,” Ezrael sighed. “As I have said before, I was once as you are, Joth. I began my existence as all elohim do—one day I lifted my head from under my wing and there I was. I was Ezrael, servant to the Clockwork—that’s all I knew and all I needed to know. I was tireless in my service, as all elohim are, and obedient to the Host. Then I was sent out with a Repair Squadron to one of the farther reaches of the Clockwork to repair a ruptured aorta—and everything changed.

“The aorta was the size of an ocean liner and over a dozen of us opened our veins to mend it. Just as we were nearing the end of the repair, the aorta burst a second time, erupting in a geyser of blood and steam, destroying the entire squadron, except for myself. Even though I instinctively knew my brethren would be regenerated anew, I could not help but be distressed by their death screams. The force of the blast sent me flying through the air, hurtling me far, far away.

“I found myself in a sector of the Clockwork rarely patrolled by the Host—and for the first time in my existence, I did not know where I was. So I did what all elohim do when separated from their brethren—I took to the air and followed the sound of the Clockwork, assuming it would lead me back to the Host. However, the surroundings I found myself flying past were unlike any part I had ever seen before. It was as if no one had ever cleared the tear ducts or mucked out the sinus cavities, much less flushed the colons. Everywhere I looked I saw gangrene, rust, fungus, mold, and wood rot. Surely this was not the Clockwork, yet, as alien and foul as my surrounding were, I could still hear the Clockwork’s hum, drawing me onward.

“Finally my instinct to repair overrode my need to return to the Host. I landed amidst the ruin and plucked a single feather from my wing, using the quill to open one of my veins, spilling my essence onto the suppurating wounds that covered the surface like tiny craters, bubbling puss and oozing bile. No sooner than the damage had healed itself, I spotted what I thought was a squadron of elohim on a repair detail approaching in my direction. However, as they drew closer, I saw that what I had thought were elohim were, in fact, imps.

“They descended upon the site in a dark cloud, chittering and squeaking amongst themselves like bats as they set about their appointed tasks— reopening the wounds in the I had just repaired. Some were armed with swords, others had axes, while others still wielded buckets of boiling pitch. Upon damaging the Clockwork, the daemons immediately smeared their own filth into the gaping wounds. The sight of such wanton destruction re-triggered my need to repair the damage. Without regard for their superior numbers, I swooped back down amidst the imps. Upon seeing me, they began making frantic ultrasonic pips and quickly dispersed.

“I once more plucked a feather from my wing and set about repairing the damage they had caused. But the very moment the Clockwork was repaired, the imps suddenly reappeared, descending onto my handiwork like a flock of hungry crows, and proceeded to undo all I had done. I flapped my wings and shooed them away, and, once they had again dispersed, I plucked yet
another
feather from my wing and began my work all over again, only to have the imps return yet
again
.

“This cycle went on for several years. I might still be there, locked in a never-ending war of attrition with those miserable imps, if something had not succeeded in breaking the chain of reaction. There was a loud buzzing and a great shadow fell across both myself and the cadre of imps.”

“ ‘What is an elohim doing here?’ asked a voice that sounded like a giant talking through the world’s largest box fan.

The imps began their high-pitched squeaking and hopped about like fleas on a hot rock. I looked up and beheld a daemon the size of an elephant with the body of a man and the head, wings and arms of a gigantic fly.

“‘Beelzebub! Beelzebub!’
gibbered the imps, still hopping up and down.

“ ‘I
know
my own name, you sub-sentient dung-flingers!’ the sephirah thundered. ‘What I
don’t
know is what an
elohim
is doing so far inside the Machine!” Beelzebub turned its multi-faceted eyes toward me. ‘Perhaps you might be of more use in answering my questions, elohim. Or are your kind as brainless as imps? No matter—what business have you here?’

“ ‘I-I don’t understand,’ I replied, genuinely baffled by what was happening. ‘I thought I was tending the Clockwork...’

“Beelzebub briskly rubbed its hairy forelegs over its head and along its wings, much the way Nisroc plucks at its mane when perturbed. ‘Does this
look
like the Clockwork to you, elohim?’

“I was at a loss as to what to answer. Although the Machine was in bad shape and smelled strongly of mildew, it did not appear all that different from the Clockwork.

“ ‘Did the seraphim send you forth as a scout?’

“This question confused me even more than the last. ‘Why should the seraphim want to spy on the Machine?’ I replied.

“ ‘Spy?’ Now every eye in Beelzebub’s head was focused on me. ‘What makes you say
spy,
elohim? We do not treat spies lightly. Tear the angel apart!’ the sephirah buzzed. ‘Start with its wings.’

“The imps swarmed over me like a horde of vampire bats, tearing at my flesh and wings with their filthy claws. I cried out for deliverance, but I was too far removed from the Host for any to come to my aid. With a burst of strength, I succeeded in shaking off my attackers long enough to take flight. The imps were soon after me, eager to use their monstrous implements on my person, which meant I would find myself trapped in yet another moebius strip of mutilation and regeneration.