Beneath the Skin

18 UNTIL YOU FADE INTO NOTHINGNESS

THE ROYAL AERIE, GEHENNA

March 25

SOMETHING COOL AND WET trailed across Lucien’s forehead, dampening the fire raging inside his skull. The pungent aromas of lavender, peppermint, and eucalyptus curled into his nostrils and prickled against his consciousness.

A hand slipped behind his aching head, eased it up. A cup pressed against his mouth. Lucien allowed his lips to part. He swallowed a sip of ginger and hyssop tea, hot and minty-sweet.

“That’s good,” a woman murmured, her voice soft and rimed with music—a delicate bell. “Drink more. It’ll help ease the pain.”

Lucien did as she suggested and swallowed more of the soothing and fragrant tea. The cup vanished from his lips and the hand lowered his head back onto a pillow. The fire and pain inside his skull diminished into glowing embers, as did the throbbing ache in his shoulders.

He listened to the sounds around him: a skirt rustling, perhaps; the clinking of a cup, spoon, and teapot; and the fleshy padding of bare feet upon stone. But underneath, a river of voices, thoughts, feelings, and pealing wybrcathl rushed through his mind like foaming white water over rocks—a swirling and dangerous current.

Shields must be down.

Lucien tried to strengthen his shields, but failed. Pain exploded in a white burst behind his eyes. His strength continued to ebb, leaving his shields as flimsy as gauze. The reason why flickered through his memory.

Gabriel speaks Lucien’s true name. “I bind you, Sar haOlam of the Elohim to the soil of Gehenna and bind your power within you, unused and unvoiced, until I set you free again.” As Gabriel paints a blood-glyph on Lucien’s forehead, translucent light streams from his palms and coils around Lucien, binding him with an ethereal rope. “As Gehenna fades, so shall you.”

Gabriel’s smug voice roiled through Lucien’s mind, awakening other memories.

Dante’s anhrefncathl, dark and burning and razor-edged, stabs into Gehenna’s fading night sky, madness glimmering in each exquisite and haunting note.

Closing his eyes, Lucien sends one last thought to Dante then, in a final, desperate act to keep his ties to Dante from revealing his location to the Elohim, he severs their bond.

Je t’aime, mon fils. Toujours.

Lucien opened his eyes and looked into a moonlight-washed night sky, his temples throbbing, his heart aching.

He’d severed the bond he’d shared with Dante and survived. But a cold, lightless hole had been ripped into the fabric of his being; a hole that seemed to rip wider with each breath he drew.

Had his child survived? And if so, was Dante’s sanity still intact?

“Would you like more tea, Samael?”

Lucien sat up at the sound of his former name. The blue marble terrace whirled for a moment, then stilled once more. Pain flickered, faded. But dread gripped his stomach. He didn’t recognize the woman who met his gaze. A spy for Gabriel?

She sat curled on a cushioned bench, her beautiful oval face full of concern. Her hair, pale as moonlight—silver with just a hint of blue—framed her face in wavy tresses, while artfully arranged curls were piled on top of her head in ancient Grecian style.

Something about her itched at the back of Lucien’s mind, seemed familiar, but it was an itch he couldn’t satisfy.

She regarded Lucien with solemn violet eyes. “You don’t look well,” she said. “Perhaps you should lie back down.” She rose to her feet, tall and willowy, her hyacinth blue gown swirling around her ankles just above her bare feet.

“No, I’m well enough,” Lucien said, planting his feet on the marble floor. “But I would like more tea, please.”

The woman walked to a small table laden with pomegranates, limes, oranges, walnuts, and a simple white teapot. She studied Lucien, head tilted, her violet eyes curious, then she turned and poured tea into a handleless cup.

Lucien took in his surroundings—blue marble; tall pillars sculpted with scenes from Gehenna’s long past; luxurious couches, chairs, and graceful tables; soft, glowing lamps; and standing at either side of an arched doorway leading into the aerie proper, a pair of guards.

The Royal Aerie.

A long cry from the smoldering embers of Sheol and its hooks. A quick flex told Lucien that his wings remained banded.

“You never answered my question,” she said, swiveling and handing him the filled cup. He caught a whiff of her scent: apple blossoms and cool, shaded water.

Lucien frowned and wrapped his fingers around the porcelain cup, its heat warming his palm. “I don’t remember the question.” He sipped at the tea.

“I asked if you knew where my mother might be,” she said. “I heard that she’d spoken to you in the pit when the creawdwr announced himself and …”

“Your mother?”

“Lilith. I’m her daughter, Hekate.”

Lucien lowered his cup and stared at her. That pale, pale hair, those intense violet eyes—of course. Lilith and the Morningstar’s daughter. No wonder she’d seemed familiar. His muscles knotted when he thought about how he’d shared Dante’s existence with Lilith, yet never once had she mentioned her own child.

But the words Lilith’s never-before-mentioned daughter had just spoken iced Lucien to his core. “Why can’t you contact Lilith? Is she blocking you?”

“She isn’t blocking me. It’s more like …” Hekate looked away, trailing a finger along one of the delicate snake heads on the braided silver torc encircling her slender throat. “It’s as though she no longer exists. Our bond hasn’t been severed. It’s like it never was.”

“And the Morningstar? Has he been able to reach your mother?”

“He tells me he’s too busy to worry about Lilith and assures me that she’s fine.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“No.”

“So is he still in the mortal world?”

“Yes.” Hekate sighed. Her hand slipped away from her torc and returned to her side. She left the table and crossed to the terrace’s white marble balustrade. She paced its length, her fingers trailing over the railing.

Lucien tossed back the rest of his tea, his heart drumming hard and fast. Lilith might be out of touch to protect her daughter, especially if the Morningstar was attempting to find her and the creawdwr she sheltered.

At least, Lucien hoped that was the case. Other darker possibilities—Dante in the Morningstar’s hands, Lilith dead; Lilith dead at Dante’s hands, his sanity slipping, and hunted by the Morningstar—flashed through his mind in quick succession.

Lucien shoved those nightmarish possibilities away. No.

“I’ve never heard an anhrefncathl before last night,” Hekate said. “Never known a creawdwr. Never thought I would. The creawdwr’s song was so beautiful and wild, so savage; it poured through me like liquid night, dark and pure and primal. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Was the Maker found?” Lucien asked, his fingers tightening around his cup.

“Hard to say,” Hekate replied, “since there’s been no contact with any of the emissaries Gabriel and my father sent. No one can reach them either. It’s as though they’ve ceased to exist too.”

Each word from Hekate’s lips intensified Lucien’s suspicion that something had gone terribly wrong. He didn’t want to risk trying to contact Lilith or Von out of fear that it would lead Gabriel or the Morningstar straight to Dante. Which raised another question.

“Why am I here and not still in Sheol?” Lucien asked.

Hekate stopped pacing. She turned to face Lucien.

“Because you were once my mother’s partner, her cydymaith, and I thought—” Her gaze skipped past Lucien and she stopped speaking.

“Because I ordered it, Samael.” Gabriel’s honey-smooth voice snaked through the air. He strode past Lucien’s couch to stand beside Hekate in a bloodred kilt and braided gold torc.

Hands gripping the railing behind him, waist-length caramel-colored hair plaited down his back, Gabriel tilted his head toward Hekate as if to whisper a confidence.

“Your mother’s former cydymaith, yes, and the murderer of our last creawdwr,” he said. “I don’t think you should rely on anything he might tell you, little dove. Samael is a liar.”

“I no longer use Samael as my name. I prefer Lucien.”

Gabriel laughed. “And your preferences matter to me, of course.”

“Said one liar to another,” Lucien retorted.

Gold light sparked in Gabriel’s moss-green eyes. “You think you’ve been very clever, no doubt. But I know you sent Lilith to fetch the creawdwr you insisted didn’t exist.”

Surprise rippled across Hekate’s face. She stared at Lucien.

“No one can send Lilith anywhere,” Lucien replied. “And certainly not to fetch.”

Gabriel pushed away from the balustrade. He wagged one finger in the air. “Ah, but you did, didn’t you? Did she promise to keep this young Maker from me? Did she vow not to bond him? You’re not a complete fool, so you must’ve realized whatever she agreed to, she lied. Yet you sent her anyway.”

Seeing no point in continued denial, Lucien said, “Yes.”

Hekate’s fingers knotted in her gown. “You lied to me,” she said, her violet gaze indignant.

“No, I didn’t. I never answered your question.”

“See?” Gabriel murmured. “What did I tell you, little dove?”

“So answer my question now,” Hekate said, her attention still fixed on Lucien. “Where is my mother? Why can’t I reach her?”

“You can’t reach her,” Gabriel said, sauntering to the fruit-laden table and plucking out a pomegranate, “because she and all of the others we sent to greet the creawdwr have been turned to stone.”

Lucien sat up straight, cold frosting his spine. Even Lilith? His thoughts rolled back to Loki crouched in St. Louis No. 3, Dante’s dark and chiming blossoms cupped within his stone hand.

“That can’t be true,” Hekate said, her face paling.

“Oh, it’s true. The Morningstar witnessed it,” Gabriel said as he slit the pomegranate open with one gold talon. Red juice trickled down his finger and along his hand, dripping onto the marble floor. “As for how—the creawdwr was responsible.”

“But … why?”

“He’s unbound and untrained, little dove. His sanity is failing.”

Dante’s words, low and taut, blazed through Lucien’s mind: If they find me, they ain’t binding me. They’re gonna hafta kill me.

Lucien’s hands knotted into fists. His child was stubborn enough to make that statement fact. Drawing in a quiet breath, he uncurled his hands, hoping Gabriel had missed that display of emotion.

But Gabriel’s wink said he had, indeed, noticed. “Samael kept this young Maker away from aingeals who would guide and teach him. Kept him away from Elohim who would bond him and keep him sane. Kept him away from Gehenna and all those who would love him.”

Hekate’s violet gaze searched Lucien’s eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“I know nothing about this creawdwr,” he said, meeting and holding her gaze. “I slayed the last Maker. Why wouldn’t I do the same with this one? The Morningstar is playing games with Gabriel.”

“And with me,” Hekate murmured, a dark and bitter note breaking her melodic voice. She spun around, her gown rippling like water, and gripped the balustrade’s railing. “He told me my mother was fine.”

“Ah, little dove,” Gabriel said, “it’s not your father who’s playing games here. Samael just agreed that he’d sent your mother after the Maker, then told you he knew nothing about the creawdwr.”

Hekate said nothing, her attention fixed on the night beyond the terrace.

Gabriel sat on a purple-cushioned bench beside the table. “Well then, I think you should know, Samael, that the Morningstar is following the creawdwr even now. He’s studying him, learning the best way to get him under his wings.”

“So he says,” Lucien said, keeping his tone bored.

“True. But the Morningstar’s given me a few interesting facts about this child-creawdwr. For one, he’s a mixed blood—Fola Fior and Elohim.” Gabriel glanced at Lucien from beneath his tawny lashes. “And he’s been injured—perhaps by a severed bond. Hard to know for certain, but interesting.”

“It sounds like the Morningstar has created an elaborate fiction to entertain you with,” Lucien said. “Fola Fior and Elohim? As a Maker?” Lucien snorted.

“You lost consciousness in the pit last night after the creawdwr announced himself,” Gabriel said. “You even bled from your nose.”

“Because I cut my link with Lilith. I’m a tad diminished these days thanks to a certain spell.” Lucien paused, as though something had just occurred to him. He met Gabriel’s amused gaze. “Are you actually suggesting that I’m the creawdwr’s father?”

“Given the Maker’s mixed blood …” Gabriel spread his hands out, palms up.

Laughing, Lucien shook his head. “The Morningstar is feeding you very entertaining fiction, indeed. Now who’s the fool?”

The amusement evaporated from Gabriel’s face. Gold light sparked in his moss green eyes. “I can have you returned to the pit. And leave you there until you fade into nothingness.”

Lucien pushed up onto his feet. “I think I’d prefer that over this boring conversation. Why did you have me brought to the palace, Seat-Warmer? Do you need instruction on how to rule?”

“I brought you here so you can watch as the Morningstar and I bond the creawdwr,” Gabriel replied, a sly smile curving his pomegranate-red lips, “and become his calon-cyfaills. Bonded to him, heart and mind. We’ll be the ones he whispers to in the night, the ones he trusts with every confidence, the ones he’ll listen to. And we’ll teach him what it is to be a Maker, Samael, we’ll teach him well.”

“Why should I care?” Lucien said, pleased his voice remained level.

“If all you’ve said is the truth, then I suppose you won’t.” Gabriel tossed the pomegranate rind over the balustrade with a casual twist of his wrist. He rose to his feet, meeting Lucien’s cold regard. “But on the other hand …”

“Will the creawdwr restore to flesh those he turned to stone?” Hekate asked.

“Yes, all will be well, little dove, once the Maker has been bonded,” Gabriel murmured, gold light sparking in his eyes. “In the meantime, I ask that you continue to tend to Samael. Keep him alive.”

“If I must,” Hekate said.

Striding to the balustrade, Gabriel kissed the curls coiled atop Hekate’s head, then turned away and unfurled his golden wings. Without another word he launched himself into the night, his wings stroking through the jasmineand-myrrh-scented air.

Hekate watched until he disappeared from view, then she swiveled around. She looked at Lucien for a long moment, her face composed, her gaze speculative.

“Do you need help sitting?” she asked, voice cool.

“Hardly.”

Lucien had used the last of his strength to force himself onto his feet. Sweat beaded his forehead and his heart tripled-timed against his ribs. Thighs shaking, he managed to drop semigracefully onto the couch.

“More tea?” Hekate asked, picking up the teapot.

“Wine would be better,” Lucien said, lying down on the couch. He draped an arm over his eye.

“I agree,” Hekate murmured.

Lucien listened to the gentle clack as she returned the teapot to the table. A few moments later he heard the sound of sandals on marble as a summoned servant brought a pitcher, heard the liquid sound of wine poured into glass.

Why had Dante turned Lilith to stone? Had Dante refused Lilith’s protection because he was still angry with Lucien or had she never had the chance to speak to him?

Despite Gabriel’s threat to force him to watch as he bonded Dante, Lucien had a sneaking suspicion the puffed-up aingeal hoped that the creawdwr wouldn’t be found until after Gehenna and Lucien had faded from existence.

Otherwise Dante’s energy would feed the land, restoring its and Lucien’s vitality. Gabriel would then either have to kill Lucien outright to be rid of him or convince the creawdwr to unmake him.

Gabriel no doubt believed that Dante could be persuaded to create a new Gehenna, one shaped by a young and powerful creawdwr, one that wouldn’t bear the stamp and quirks of creawdwrs past; a new age for the Elohim.

Gabriel’s words rolled like thunder through Lucien’s mind: And he’s been injured—perhaps by a severed bond.

How badly had he hurt his child in his effort to protect him?

The warm scent of apple blossoms and fruit-laden wine curled into Lucien’s nostrils. He lifted his arm from his eyes and accepted the moisture-beaded glass Hekate offered him. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then sipped from her glass of ruby red wine. She gave Lucien a sidelong glance, long silver-and-frost lashes shading her eyes. “My mother hated you for ages,” she murmured. “And Gabriel worked hard to make sure I’d despise you.”

“And you don’t?”

“ ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ ” Hekate quoted, holding Lucien’s gaze.

Lucien chuckled. “You are your mother’s daughter.” He took a long, cooling swallow of wine, tasting the clean bite of lime beneath the pomegranate.

“No, I’m nothing like Lilith. I have no desire for power. I don’t understand why anyone would crave to rule a dying land anyway.”

“It wasn’t always dying,” Lucien said softly.

“But that’s all I’ve ever known—a dying land, a stagnant people, endless wars.”

Disappointment curled through Lucien. A spy for Gabriel, after all. Albeit a radiant and alluring spy, even if a bit clumsy.

“And all you’d need to fix that is the creawdwr,” he commented, voice flat. “I don’t know where he is, nor do I care.”

Rosy color blossomed on Hekate’s cheeks. “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

Lucien laughed. “Tell me, what did Gabriel mean for you to say? Perhaps you should’ve practiced a bit.”

Indignation and chagrin chased across Hekate’s lovely face. “I am not speaking for Gabriel,” she said, chin lifted. “Only for myself.”

Yes, very much Lilith’s daughter. And yet …

Hekate crossed to the purple-cushioned bench and sat down, her back straight. She cupped both hands around her stemless wine glass. “I’ve been Gabriel’s hostage for most of my life,” she said, her voice low. “Well-treated, yes. I’ve lacked for nothing. Except my freedom. Oh, Gabriel never would’ve stopped me from winging to the mortal world to see its wonders. But he would’ve hung my parents from hooks in Sheol until I returned.”

Lucien sat up. “I didn’t know.”

A hostage to ensure the good behavior of Lilith and the Morningstar. But that still didn’t explain why Lilith had never mentioned Hekate.

A dark possibility brewed in Lucien’s mind. Maybe she never told me because she hoped to trade my son for her daughter; every word uttered from her lush lips a lie.

Lilith of Lies.

Anger smoldered deep in Lucien’s belly. He tossed back the rest of his wine.

“I think the creawdwr is your son,” Hekate said, her violet eyes searching Lucien’s. “I think everything you’ve endured in the pit and from Gabriel has been for your son’s sake. I think you’ve been protecting him from aingeals like Gabriel and my father. And I think you severed your bond with him to keep Gabriel from following it.”

Lucien said nothing.

Hekate finished her wine, then set the glass down on the marble floor. She rose to her feet, her hyacinth blue dress flowing like liquid silk along her curves, and walked to the balustrade.

“My calon-cyfaill, Jvala, was among the emissaries who went to greet the Maker,” she said. “She’s now silent, just like my mother.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucien asked.

Hekate swiveled around to face him, one slender hand still holding the carved marble rail behind her. “I would do anything to find and free my calon-cyfaill. I would do anything to see my mother restored to flesh—despite all the harsh words between us.”

Lucien forced himself to his feet. His heart kicked hard against his ribs once, then calmed. He walked across the terrace and joined Hekate at the balustrade. She lifted her gaze to his, and Lucien saw steel in the depths of her eyes, a heart-rooted resolve.

“I believe you.”

“So if the creawdwr is your son, you would know where to find him, how to reason with him,” she said. “If he’s injured from the severed bond, you can balance him again. All I want is my mother and Jvala.”

“Whether or not the Maker is my son doesn’t matter,” Lucien said gently. “I am captive here, bound to Gehenna. I can’t help you.”

“If you help me find Lilith and Jvala, I will help you escape,” Hekate said, urgency edging her musical voice. “You’ll still be tied to Gehenna’s fate because of Gabriel’s spell, but at least we’ll be free.”

“Hard for Gabriel to punish Lilith or the Morningstar with both of them in the mortal world,” Lucien murmured. Tilting his head, he studied Hekate.

Perhaps she was more skilled in subterfuge than he’d first thought. Maybe she’d only played at being clumsy.

“How do you know I wouldn’t abandon you the moment we arrived in the mortal world?” Lucien asked.

“Good question, and blunt.” Hekate regarded Lucien, her index finger tapping against her chin as she considered. “I think I would have to place a geis upon you.”

Lucien nodded. “And since I would need to be sure of your intentions as well, I would need to place a geis upon you too.”

Hekate’s eyes widened. A smile flickered across Lucien’s lips. She hadn’t thought things through all the way. A true schemer would have. A point in her favor.

Lucien shrugged. “How else can I trust you?”

Holding his gaze, Hekate drew in a deep breath of myrrh-scented air and lowered her shields. She lifted her chin again, daring him to refuse her gift—her unguarded mind.

But he couldn’t delve into her mind. Not with his weak and fading shields. If he did, Hekate might see Dante in his thoughts, might see all his fears for his child.

“Name your geis,” Lucien said.

“You would be forbidden to leave my side. And yours?”

“You would be forbidden to lead anyone to my son or reveal his location.”

“Accepted,” Hekate said breathlessly. “Your son. I knew it.”

Lucien pressed a finger against her lips. “Never say or think that again.”

Hekate pushed Lucien’s silencing finger aside. “I won’t.”

“Then I accept your offer and your terms.”

A radiant smile illuminated Hekate’s face, then she gasped. Wonder blossomed on her lovely face, illuminated her violet, gold-flecked eyes. Her wings untucked and fanned out—creamy white, the smooth undersides pale lavender.

“Anhrefncathl,” she whispered, voice trembling. Tears glinted in her eyes. “So exquisite. So haunted.”

Lucien felt like his heart had turned to stone. The glass slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor, wine spraying the blue marble like blood.

He neither heard nor felt Dante’s song.

And severed bond or not, he should’ve heard. For whatever reason—Gabriel’s spell, the severed bond—he’d lost Dante as son and creawdwr.

The hole inside of Lucien ripped wider.