Chapter 6, pp 56-61

Despite living only two and a half hours away by bus for over a decade, Lucia had visited New York City only twice. She told herself that it was the expense that kept her away, but the truth was, though she wanted to like Manhattan, she found the crowds and noise and relentlessly fast pace of absolutely everything overwhelming, and she always felt the country mouse every time she stepped onto the pavement of any street in the city. It didn’t help that New Yorkers tended to assume anyone with a Southern accent was an ignoramus, or that, in a lot of ways, she was one. Growing up fundamentalist in the South didn’t result in a cosmopolitan understanding of the world. Today, however, she looked at the sleek, fashionable city folk and wondered if any one of them would have the nerve to take a whack at an angel with an iron poker. Probably not.

Not even Finsternis could make street parking appear in the West Village, so he parked in a garage like everyone else and they walked along streets lined with beautiful, well-maintained brick buildings, upscale shops marked only by the wares discretely displayed in their windows, and restaurants whose only advertisements were the tantalizing smells from the kitchens. Like everywhere in New York City, the pavement baked in the late Spring sun, the sunshine boiling down unfiltered save by small, stunted trees growing out of iron gratings in the ground. Lucia couldn’t really comprehend living in a place where she’d have to take a half hour cab ride just to see grass.

Lucia tugged on Finsternis’ sleeve and pointed at what might have been a Chinese restaurant. The only clue to ethnicity was the discrete lettering on the door and Lucia couldn’t tell Cantonese from Korean. Whatever it was, the four empty tables in the dining room looked clean and the smell was mouthwatering.

“We should get what you need first. I do not relish the idea of being caught in there by a group of angels without it,” he said.

Lucia didn’t blame him. Finsternis would have the advantage in the dark, cramped space, but they would be trapped until they killed the angels or were killed themselves.

“Why weren’t you worried about being caught before?” she asked.

“I was expecting the Morningstar to provide more backup. Apparently, he has a new strategy.”

Lucia considered her brief meeting with her father. “Yeah, have you considered that his new strategy may be ‘let it all burn’?”

Finsternis looked at her seriously. “Yes. I have. It is not, however, my strategy.”

They walked on. After a block, the crowds changed from perfectly coiffed office workers and unwashed beggars to brightly dressed people of an Asian heritage Lucia couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until she saw a line of men with shaved heads wearing red and gold robes that she realized the neighborhood was Tibetan.

The monks avoided looking at Finsternis, but they stared at Lucia without any attempt at subtlety. Their expressions were . . . delighted? Lucia wondered what place in Buddhist mythology nephalim occupied. By their expressions, it was as saviors.

“Finsternis, why are those monks so happy to see me?”

He glanced at the monks, who very carefully looked away, and said, “They are happy to see your aura. It is, as far as I can tell, the same colour as their robes. This must have some meaning to them, though I do not know what.” He considered them, surprisingly unoffended by their refusal to look at him. “Of course, Buddhist monks tend to be happy more often than most humans.”

“Yes, I’ve never seen a picture of the Dalai Lama where he wasn’t smiling.” She met Finsternis’ gaze. “He’s on Twitter, too, you know.”

“What does the Dalai Lama do on Twitter?” asked Finsternis curiously.

“Puts more love into 140 characters than most people do into an entire book.”

“He is the reincarnation of the spirit of compassion.” He glanced at the monks. “Or so they say.”

“What did you mean ‘as far as you can tell’ about my aura?”

Finsternis began walking again, paying more attention to the buildings they passed. Lucia looked behind her. The monks were still staring. “I cannot see your aura directly as I can a human’s or a demon’s. I can only see it reflected on the humans you persuade. It is red and gold.”

“Oh. What does that mean?” Lucia was jealous of yet another of Finsternis’ abilities.

He shrugged. “On a human it would denote a passionate person, an artist or a revolutionary, someone who burns so brightly, they are doomed to die young. On a nephalim, I have no idea what it means.”

“What about on a demon?”

“Demons’ auras are the fire they channel. Purples have purple auras, greens have green auras, et cetera. Our auras are not reflective of our personalities or physical state, as in humans,” he explained.

He stopped short in front of a door just like every other door on the street. There was nothing special about the door at all, no sign or lettering on it, not even a street number. The building itself, a brownstone with a tall stoop, high entryway, and long windows with deep sills, was like every other on the block.  The heavy black cast iron railing contrasted nicely with the overflowing flower boxes on either side of the door, but other than the profusion of colorful flowers, there was nothing to distinguish this door from any other.

Finsternis opened the door without hesitation, clearly expecting to find it unlocked, which Lucia found odd, especially in Manhattan, until she stepped inside after him to discover a shop. The inside of the shop bore no relation to the West Village street it inhabited. It smelled of old spices, wood, leather and very old books. Shelves lined the long, thin space, from floor to ceiling, displaying leather bound and gilted books, daggers, urns, vases, bowls, jewelry, musical instruments and other items Lucia had no names for. Everything gave off the impression of such age that she was certain that only the shelves themselves were made after the Revolutionary War, but not a hint of dust or rot or mold could be found.

A glass case filled with smaller pieces of jewelry and objets d’art stood toward the back of the nameless shop, nearly hiding an ancient Tibetan woman in a loose, bright orange shirt, her hair covered by an equally bright green scarf.

“Finsternis! It is ever good to see you,” she said, her face lit by a joyful smile, her voice strong and high.

Lucia blinked. Finsternis was openly contemptuous of humans, making this woman’s warm greeting confusing at best.

“Bayarma! It is well indeed to find you still here,” he said in return, his own smile lighting up his face.

Lucia felt her jaw drop. She instantly liked the old woman with her sincere warmth and infectious smile, but Finsternis so happy to see a human was bizarre. “It’s like you’re trying to be difficult! You hate humanity!”

“That does not mean I hate every human,” he said loftily.

Bayarma moved from behind the case with surprising ease. She walked up to Lucia and grasped her hands, barely reaching her chin. “Pay the Dark Prince no mind, child.” Finsternis flinched. “He is by his nature difficult, and that is no fault of his.” Bayarma’s dark eyes, though nearly hidden under wrinkled, drooping eyelids, were bright. Her accent reminded Lucia forcibly of the Dalai Lama.

“The Dark Prince?” Lucia asked. Finsternis flinched again.

Bayarma looked at Finsternis craftily. “You didn’t tell her?” Finsternis shook his head, his violet hair shimmering in the dim light. Bayarma turned back to Lucia. “Finsternis is the heir to the Unclaimed Throne of Hell. It is only foolishness that he refuses to claim it.”

Lucia raised her eyebrows. “Funny, I’ve never known Finsternis to be foolish. Irritating and impossible, but not foolish.” He glared at her.

Bayarma reached up an patted Lucia’s cheek. “Dear girl, all men are foolish in one way or another. Finsternis may be a demon prince, but he is still a man.” She looked at Finsternis, all wounded pride. “Why did you come, Finsternis? Sure not just to warm my old heart?”

Finsternis took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. He was nervous and it sat oddly on him. “I need the Seal of Solomon, Bayarma.”

Bayarma’s eyes opened wide and she took a step back. “Why would you, of all people, want such a thing?”

“Wait, the Seal of Solomon? That’s real? You have it?” Lucia looked at the shop’s contents more closely. “What is all this stuff?” A blade caught her eye. There was nothing special about it, nothing attractive. She moved closer to it. It was ugly, really, dull, strangely shaped, too big for a knife, not big enough for a sword. She had seen drawings of this . . .“This the Spear of Destiny, isn’t it?” The blade had an aura of power to it, and she couldn’t look away. It sang a song of blood and fate and she knew it was just what she needed, if she could just touch it—

Finsternis grabbed Lucia’s arm and spun her around. “Stop that!” he ordered. “Do you see why I need the ring, Bayarma?”

Lucia could still hear the song of the Spear, could smell blood, could see fate—she hugged Finsternis, pressed her face into his chest and breathed deeply. Salt water and woodsmoke, fresh cut grass and five minutes before a storm. The Spear stopping singing.

“Finsternis, the Seal of Solomon is a danger to you,” said Bayarma, clearly shaken, all trace of good humor gone.

“And if Hell’s Champion dies, the danger to me will be less?” asked Finsternis.

Lucia shoved herself back. “I know I was only born to stop the Apocalypse, but would it be too much to ask that one person in the entire universe care about me?” Tears pooled in her eyes and she prayed to a God she had hated her entire life for an archangel, a lightning bolt, a gas line explosion, anything to kill her before she started crying.

Bayarma’s face was pure sympathy. “Child—“

“Little Light,” Finsternis began.

Lucia shook her head, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I wanted to hear lies, I could call my mother. She’s been lying to me since the day I was born. Bayarma, I can’t save the world if every angel I run into can set me off and I do want to save the world. Everyone on Earth should not have to die because I’ve got issues.”

Bayarma studied Lucia carefully. “That should not happen, you know.” She sighed. “Of course, I thought nephalim were only male. Perhaps that is why this has never been a problem before.” She walked to the back of the store more stiffly than before, to a door Lucia hadn’t noticed. Lucia and Finsternis carefully avoided looking at one another, which left Lucia looking at her shoes because she was afraid of looking at anything else in the shop after the Spear of Destiny.

Bayarma returned, holding a small, blue box familiar to any engaged woman. Lucia took it and opened it. Nestled in the blue velvet lining was a thick ring made of iron and brass and decorated with the only Hebrew word Lucia knew: cut crudely into the metal. Unlike the Spear of Destiny, Lucia had no desire to touch the Seal of Solomon. In fact, it radiated ugliness and perversion, a thing that should not be. She held the box out to Bayarma. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

Bayarma darted a glance at Finsternis, who shook his head slightly. “This is a thing of great power. It will help you.”

“Then give it to Finsternis,” said Lucia.

“It can only be used by those with human blood,” replied Bayarma.

“Used for what?” Lucia did not want to touch it, didn’t want to get it on her skin, wanted to bathe just looking at it.    

“Controlling angels and demons, of course. Haven’t you read the stories?” asked Bayarma. “Iron is the only weapon humans have against angels, brass the only weapon against demons.”

Lucia had read the stories, though not in many years. “Didn’t Asmodeus steal the ring from Solomon? How could a demon touch such a thing?” She felt nauseated and dull, tired from the effort of having to retrieve her thoughts through a layer of rancid honey.

Finsternis made a multitonal derisive noise. “Many of the ‘demons’ of legend were not demons at all, but rather fallen angels.”

“But still-“ Lucia was certain that didn’t make sense. The ring controlled angels as well as demons.

“Asmodeus was an archangel, like Lucifer and Azrael. Archangels are not the same as angels. Asmodeus did steal the ring from Solomon. It is too powerful, a foolish thing for Yhwh to have made, let along give to an Israelite warlord,” explained Finsternis. He was pretending at calm, but to Lucia’s eye, he flickered and flashed like static on a screen as he repeatedly drew on the Inferno only to immediately let it go.

“As I said, all men are foolish at least once,” said Bayarma.

“So archangels are immune to it?” If Lucia were going to carry something that repulsive, she certainly would not wear it, it should be useful against her most dangerous enemies.

Finsternis shook his head, snarled, displayed too many shiny white fangs. “Asmodeus lives, but he is broken. It is debatable as to whether he even is an archangel anymore.

Lucia shook her head. Nothing was worth all that. “No.”

Finsternis drew in a deep breath, eyes narrowing and Bayarma shook her head. “I don’t have any other way to keep you safe.”

Lucia looked at Finsternis. “You can just do what you did before.” Bayarma gave Finsternis a considering look.

“What if I am not there? What if I do not get to you in time?” asked Finsternis.

Lucia knew he was right. She also knew she’d rather jump into a vat of hydrochloric acid than wear the damned thing. They were at an impasse. Finsternis ground his teeth and Lucia glared at him. Bayarma turned, went to the display case and opened it. She selected a necklace and brought it back to Lucia, who hesitated to take it before realizing it was just metal with no power she could discern.

The necklace was a gold stylized sun hanging from a heavy gold chain. The sun itself was the size of the palm of her hand. It was old, surely, the gold almost the colour of brass, the design unlike anything she had ever seen before. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the edges of the sun’s rays still sharp, each link of the chain uniform.

Bayarma reached over and opened the sun. Until that moment, Lucia hadn’t noticed that it was a locket the clasp and hinges were so cleverly hidden. “Oh, I can put the Seal in here. I don’t have to touch it.”

“The gold will block any effect it might have,” said Finsternis.

“So gold conducts electricity and insulates magic?” asked Lucia.

Finsternis rolled his eyes. “It is not magic. It is physics a human scientist could never see.”

“They probably have seen it,” added Bayarma, carefully placing the Seal inside the locket. “They just aren’t capable of knowing what it is.” She placed the locket around Lucia’s neck.

Lucia looked down at it, the huge stylized sun resting in her cleavage. She like knowing what the locket hid, but she couldn’t feel anything. She looked at Finsternis. He no longer flickered with supernatural fire. Still, wearing the locket was like carrying a spider in a box, she couldn’t see it, but she couldn’t possibly forget the spider was there, all covered in goo, a gooey spider . . .

Lucia spun to face the door. Nobody was there, but they were coming. “Finsternis! We have to go!” She hugged Bayarma. “Thank you.”

“What is it?” asked Finsternis as he led Lucia to the back of the store.

“Agents.”