In her apartment above the shop, Bayarma sat Finsternis on the bright orange couch and presented him with a red clay jar stopped with black wax. Removing the wax released what Lucia could only describe as living shadows that coursed up his hands and onto his face. Finsternis’ eyelids fluttered, his eyes went black and he passed out. Lucia helped Bayarma take off his heavy combat boots and lay him out on the couch. Bayarma went to the kitchen at the front of the apartment with the promise of a meal Lucia couldn’t contemplate eating. It seemed wrong to be hungry after bashing a woman’s head in.
Asleep, Finsternis’ face lost its slyness, the look that seemed to say he had a secret he wasn’t going to share and it was hilarious. He didn’t look innocent by any means, rather he looked serious, full of noble purpose.
“He looks like a king,” Lucia said softly.
“He is one, no matter what he pretends,” came a musical voice from behind her.
Lucia whirled around to face what was surely an archangel, and not a fallen one like Lucifer. His features were regular and unremarkable, rendered truly beautiful by silver eyes ringed in black. His skin was smooth, but his face had the gravitas of age. His hair, hanging past his shoulders in soft waves, was a shimmery light silver that seemed to glow from within. His white, high collared silk coat emphasized his lithe build, and slim white pants tucked into high white boots emphasized his height. A white velvet cloak lined with pale silver silk dangled from long, elegant fingers.
Lucia fumbled with the locket sitting heavily on her chest. Bayarma had insisted upon washing it and returning it to Lucia even prior to dealing with Finsternis’ injuries.
The archangel eyed the locket curiously and made no move. “I have no idea what that is supposed to be, but it is not necessary.” His words flowed and lilted like a Stradivarius played by a master.
“What have you done to Bayarma?” demanded Lucia.
His eyes flicked to the side, towards the kitchen. “If you mean the woman in the orange shirt, she is merely sleeping.” He stepped into the living room and draped his cloak over the cobalt blue loveseat, then executed a courtly bow with such grace, Lucia felt as if she were breathing clumsily. “I am the archangel Israfel.”
Lucia thought for a moment. “You inspire music written for the glory of the Lord, right?” Compared to his, Lucia’s voice was the cawing of a hoarse crow.
Israfel smiled, the lines of his face settling into something immensely appealing. “Yes, I am impressed, my dear, so few on this plane know me anymore.” He made a playfully offended face.
Lucia couldn’t help smiling back, though her teeth were a travesty in comparison to his. “Honestly, I never thought studying the angels would come in handy.” Her smile died when she recalled Finsternis behind her. There was no way of knowing how long he would stay asleep, although she could guess his reaction if he woke up in the same room with an archangel. “Why are you here?”
Israfel sighed like a melancholy cello. “Everyone is in such a hurry. You, the Dark Prince, Lucifer, Gabriel, Yhwh Himself. No one takes the time to consider, to see all the sides and angles, to ponder reactions and consequences.
“I don’t think you want to be here when the Dark Prince wakes up,” said Lucia.
After taking a moment to seriously consider the matter, Israfel shook his head mournfully, shimmering waves brushing against his silk coat in a barely heard harmony. “I suppose not, though I cannot see why the Dark Prince should have any enmity for me. I wish him no harm.”
Lucia stared at him. Was he serious, trying to trick her or were archangels subject to some form of Alzheimers? “You’re an archangel.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Israfel waved a hand dismissively, the graceful gesture its own beautiful dance.
Lucia had the feeling that she the Archangel of Music were having two different conversations, just tangentially related enough to seem connected. “Okay, back to the beginning. You’re an archangel?” Israfel nodded. “You’re not fallen?” He nodded with a moue of distaste. “Are you my uncle?”
That surprised Israfel. He drew back, opened his mouth, then thought about it while biting his lip. Finally, he shrugged. “I suppose I am, though I had never thought about it before. Hmmm.” He paused again, clearly giving the question more thought. “Angels and archangels do not truly have families the way demons and humans do. We are all created by Yhwh, not born,” he said the word as if it tasted bad, “but I was made in the same batch as Lucifer. So, yes, you could call me your uncle.”
Israfel was long-winded and fey, deferential, almost timid, and Lucia was sure he wouldn’t get to the point before Finsternis woke up, but she was charmed by him nonetheless. Israfel had none of Lucifer’s arrogance, none of the angels’ single-minded viciousness, none of the demons’ quick tempers. Lucia thought he would be the perfect companion to an awkward family function, charming and unaffected enough to make everything go smoothly.
“Well, if I am your uncle, then so are Azrael, Asmodeus, Raguel, Ramiel and Uriel. As to the aunts, well,” he frowned, “there are no female angels. I am quite astonished to find myself in possession of a niece rather than a nephew.”
“Gabriel isn’t an equal to Lucifer?” Lucia asked.
Israfel laughed, the glissando of a perfectly tuned harp. “No, though I would not say so anywhere Gabriel could hear. He was made after Lucifer defected to replace him. As a replacement, Gabriel was made to lack the ability, the desire even, to disobey our Master.”
Lucia shivered. Even dogs could conceive of and carry out disobedience. It was chilling to consider a self aware creature that could not. “Why not just make a robot?”
Israfel inclined his head. “I would use the word ‘golem’, but I have had the same thought. Gabriel proves us right every day. He is vicious with a desire for that which he cannot desire.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Lucia hated to cut the conversation short, but time was never on her side anymore.
Israfel shrugged again. “I am not sure why I am here.” He put up a hand to forestall Lucia’s outburst. “I need to make you, or more precisely, the Dark Prince, aware of a few things. I do not doubt that these things are significant, I am just not sure how or why.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “No one discusses battles or war strategy with the Archangel of Music.”
“No, I suppose they would not,” said Finsternis weakly. Israfel went grey, his eyes showing white all around. Lucia braced herself and turned to Finsternis. He was struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. The skin of his face and hands was no longer blackened, but he looked haggard and worn.
Israfel stood and bowed again, more deeply than before. “Dark Prince,” Finsternis flinched, “I am Israfel, Archangel of Music.” His face was all concern. “What happened to you, if I may ask?”
A balky look flashed across Finsternis’ face, then he sighed. “Brass. We ran into agents equipped with brass.”
Anger sat uneasily on Israfel’s face. “A cruel thing. How long ago?”
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes ago,” said Lucia.
“You need more sleep, Dark Prince,” scolded Israfel as Finsternis flinched again.
“Please stop calling me that,” said Finsternis. “I am known as Finsternis.”
“Known as? That’s not your name?” asked Lucia. Israfel was clearly having difficulty suppressing laughter. “What?” For Lucia, this was too close to the first five years after she left the cocoon of fundamentalism. Every social situation, whether at work, at play, or at the grocery store, was one awkward missed cultural reference after another. Lucia had grown up in churches, listening to worship music, reading the Bible and Elsie Dinsmore and never seeing a single movie. Her mother had owned a TV, but it was on only during the 700 Club.
While Lucia’s contemporaries were watching Saturday morning cartoons, music videos on MTV, Ghostbusters and The Breakfast Club, Lucia was memorizing Bible verses and striving to match the weepy perfection of a 19th Century fictional character. Filling in the holes in her education had been a monumental task, especially when it came to science, but no amount of effort could make up for coming from an entirely different American culture. Lucia had learned to laugh and nod and reference cultural touchstones she had never seen or heard well enough to avoid embarrassment, but she feared moments such as these when her ignorance was revealed and mocked.
Fortunately, Finsternis took pity on her. “Why would she know, archangel?” he chided Israfel. “’Finsternis’ is German for ‘darkness’. Humans cannot reproduce demonspeak and angels will not do so, so demons choose a name from one of the human languages, always a word for darkness or fire.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that.” Lucia felt stupid. She’d heard Finsternis speak in his native tongue, she should have realized Finsternis wasn’t his name.
He turned to Israfel. “What is it I need to know?”
Israfel sat back down. Both he and Finsternis looked at Lucia expectantly. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. She didn’t want to be closer than she had to be to the crackling tension between the two. She squinted. The air actually was crackling between them, throwing off purple and white sparks like crazed lightning bugs.
Israfel took a deep breath. “Where to begin?” Finsternis sighed again. Perhaps he was too tired to snap at the archangel, or perhaps he, too, recognized Israfel’s inherently gentle nature. Concern knitted Israfel’s brows. “Yes, briefly, but there are things the archdemons knew it appears you do not. I believe you need to know them—“ he ended on a warbling howl that switched to an arpeggio of growls. Finsternis’ jaw dropped and Israfel grinned.
“Was that your name?” asked Lucia.
Finsternis nodded, his hair falling in front of suddenly glowing eyes.
“Did I say it right?” asked Israfel nervously. Finsternis nodded again. “You may have been given the impression that we are too proud to speak your ‘barbaric’ tongue, but the truth is that demonspeak is difficult for archangels to reproduce properly, and angels cannot do it at all.”
“Thank you,” said Finsternis.
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