Using the tip to prick his thumb, he traced the existing sigil carefully and left a trail of fresh gold over the dimming silver. The doorway seemed to shiver with light, then the heavy stone swung soundlessly inward.
“After you.” Michael tipped his head toward the dark space beyond, and Christos stepped wordlessly inside.
The air seemed to hum with power in this room, the books and scrolls contained within emitting a cacophony of various energies, and it made him pause to even out his breathing. His eyes skimmed the shelves, searching for the one book he desperately hoped to see sitting in its place. His heart sank the moment his eyes lit upon the empty space between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the codices of Thomas’ Gospel.
“Oh no,” he said softly.
A broad hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed—either in reassurance or to help Michael ground himself, Christos couldn’t be sure. He felt a bit like his world had just flipped on its headand he wondered if this was how Michael had felt those long eons ago, when Lucifer?—
He shook off the thought. “This is not good.”
“No,” Michael agreed, “it is not. But I wonder…”
“Yes?” Christos realized his hands were trembling, and he curled his fingers tightly to stop it.
“Anyone who knows this sigil can open this door.”
“Right, of course.” Christos turned to face the angel, curiosity turning to creeping realization as Michael continued.
“But the vault itself requires a key. And only three people possess a copy of that key. Myself...”
“My father,” Christos continued, picking up the thread, “and…”
“Raphael.”
Christos unclenched his fist, and they both stared down at the key laid innocently over his scar.
Raphael was carefully transposing his ruined notes to a new sheet of paper—bent over the page and fastidiously checking and double-checking the copy to avoid any mistakes—when a resounding boom echoed through the otherwise silent library.
He jumped in alarm, his arm jerking and leaving a fresh swath of dark ink across his new page. He sighed at the sight, but quickly shoved his notes to the side, rising to investigate the source of the noise as Titanus approached in a hobbling run, growling and snarling.
Raphael managed about two steps before Michael strode out from between the stacks looking furious, Christos hustling in his wake to keep pace with the towering angel. Raphael’s heart gave a stutter, and his skin went slick with a sheen of sweat.
Michael seldom madethatface, and when he did, it was never good for the target of his rage. Raphael was a trained soldier—by Michael himself, in fact—but he had always been more scholar than warrior, and he knew he stood no chance whatsoever against someone of Michael’s caliber.
“M-Michael!” he stammered, backing up into his desk and knocking over the cup that held his pens. They scattered and rolled across the wood surface and tumbled to the floor as Michael kept advancing on him. Raphael’s knees and nerves grew weaker with every bit of ground his friend gained.
The blond emanated a visible aura of power as he reached Raphael and grabbed him by the front of his robes, lifting him clean off his feet and pressing him to the wall with a low growl. Titanus answered with a growl of his own, until Michael shot him a look so domineering, the gargoyle yipped and fled back to his cushion.
“We have some questions,” Christos declared, and Raphael whimpered.
“I’m sure I can answer them on the ground?” he suggested, only for Michael to narrow his eyes and press him harder into the stone. “Or not! I can answer them up here, as well.”
“You mentioned Mags had been here recently,” Christos continued, steadfastly ignoring the unusual nature of this conversation, “and that she had been inside the vault.”
Raphael nodded. “Yesterday, around noon. I remember because I had just finished my hummus and?—”
“Did she leave here with anything?” the young prince interrupted, not particularly interested in the angel’s lunch. “Something from the vault, specifically.”
Raphael tried to school his features into something resembling neutrality. “No.” He shook his head, only for Michael to shakehimin response.
“Do not lie to us, Rapha,” he spoke quietly, calmly, but there was a threat slipped under that command. The librarian trembled.
“I didn’t see her with anything when she left,” he said sincerely, and it was the truth. Anything Mags might have taken with her had been safely stowed inside the bag she had carried on her shoulder, and he was hardly going to search a lady’s bag. Especially the consort of the prince.
Michael squinted suspiciously as he dropped his friend unceremoniously to the floor. “Half-truths are lies of omission, Raphael.”
The librarian said nothing as he picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his robes, then collected his writing instruments and replaced them in their holder.
