If something was clearly wrong, that meant there must be a clear answer. And if that was true, there was evidence to be found somewhere.
“Do you…want to leave?”
“No.” He closed his eyes, steadied himself, and rose to his feet, dusting himself off. “There’s an answer here, and if anyone can find it, it’s me.”
“We don’t have to do this today,” Luce hedged. “We’ve probably wasted too much time on this diversion as it is. There are problems back at home we should be resolving.”
It wasn’t lost on Michael that Lucifer spoke of them as a unit. He said ‘we’ and not ‘I’, and for a moment the angel wanted to embrace it. To run from this place and find somewhere dark and quiet to process these revelations, while he let Luce handle things like he used to in the past. But he couldn’t.
“Lucifer…please.” Michael clenched and unclenched his fists, not making eye contact with the other man. “I’m not sure I could force myself to return to this place. And I can be swift about it. Let’s not squander this opportunity.”
“Fair enough.” Luce cocked his head with a small smile. “Lead the way, tracker.”
Michael relaxed and tried to think back. Even as they had chased after the flickering image of his past self, Michael of the present had been subconsciously noticing everything around them. It was part of who he was now, a sense he had developed over time and honing his tracking abilities. All he had to do was tap into that power, dig a little deeper into his core… And there it was.
His echo had swerved left, following the sound of taunting laughter, but there was second path trampled through the undergrowth, curving away from the noise.
“I know where we need to go.”
“After you.”
He retraced their path to the spot he remembered and knelt to examine a flower that had been snapped at the stem by careless, hurried footfalls.
“Two paths,” Luce murmured, pausing the world again and crouching beside him, using Michael’s shoulder to steady himself. “I assume this is new information for you?”
“I was so angry,” Michael said softly, but it was laced with frustration. “I was so blinded by my rage, I overlooked it.”
“I expect someone was counting on that.” They rose in unison, and Luce’s hand lingered for a shadow longer than maybe necessary. “So, I suppose we must decide if we wish to know the truth.”
“How do you mean?”
“’I sat alone with my conscience, in a place where time had ceased’,” Luce recited the words as if quoting another. AtMichael’s confused look, he elaborated, “I said something like that to a poet, once. How badly do you seek your answers, Mikha’el?”
“Why would I turn away from the truth? After everything that’s happened?”
Luce gave him a pointed look. “Exactly. After all the havoc it wrought on our lives, how badly will it hurt you now if our betrayer wears the face of a friend?”
It was a fair question. Michael tried to imagine how he would feel if it was revealed to be Raphael or Uriel who had done this to them. The idea alone sent a pang through his gut. But deeper was the sense that he already knew who was behind this.
In the countless decades since he had been here in this moment, Michael had developed a fairly reliable intuition. There was only one person who could craft such compelling illusions, let alone know Luce well enough to impersonate him so thoroughly and convincingly.
But he had to make sure. He had to know.
“It will eat us alive if we don’t face this,” he said, fixing Luce with a determined look, and the Devil inclined his head in a nod.
“Lead the way then.”
Foster stared resolutely out the window as Gabe recited the ceremonial chants from the Gospel of Lazarus in an archaic language that seemed more hybrid than any one thing. Foster picked up on some Aramaic, a little bit of Hebrew, a phrase in old Enochian that roughly translated to “release the spirit of this body”.
The already dim lights flickered, one of the old fluorescent strips dying completely after a brief surge. A soft tremor ranthrough the floor, and Foster subconsciously shifted away from it. Gabe continued chanting, but extended one hand silently toward Foster, who eyed it with concern. The angel crooked a finger, beckoning, and Foster reached out tentatively to take his hand. Gabe squeezed twice and drew him closer to the bed.
Still he chanted, though this seemed to be a repetition of an earlier passage. Foster caught the words “divine sacrifice” and “blood oath”, but not much else. A breeze swept the room, brushing Foster’s hair so it tickled at his collar. Gabe’s coat fluttered, and he closed his eyes.
Foster watched him, quietly, as the chanting became more rapid and Gabe's lips moved in frantic shapes. A crack like thunder had Foster looking out the window, only to be met with a clear afternoon. The wind kicked up, rushing around their feet and winding up his body like a living entity. The candles flickered but remained lit, and the sacred bone powder was swept up in the coils of air.
Gabe inhaled sharply, eyes flying open and wild as he gripped Foster’s hand so hard bones shifted. “Get ready,” he said, voice hoarse from chanting.
“For what?” Foster was surprised to find his own voice was taut and ragged.
