She seemed to shrink under the weight of their declarations. “Sometimes it’s hard to comprehend such unwavering love and support.”
“Well, you have it,” Uriel pulled her into an embrace. “And you may not be able to return to Heaven, but we will always come to you if you call us, here or on Earth.”
“Do not think of us with sadness, Gloriana.”
“I don’t,” she promised, but a trace of lingering grief haunted her features.
“Thiss iss very touching,” Pyzyk interrupted, “but if you wissh to leave it sshould be ssooner than later. Ssome of uss have ressponssibilitiess to attend to.”
Uriel laughed. “I like you, Pyzyk.”
“Thankss.” Her fangs glinted as she grinned again. “Now let’ss get going.”
Glory watched them go, somehow feeling both warmed and broken. Seeing the two of them after all this time… she wondered if she should’ve heeded her initial instinct to avoid them until they left. It made everything even harder, knowing that they were up there, and she was down here, and that their paths, which were once so aligned, were now so at odds. With a sigh, she dug in her pocket for her projector cube and sank onto one of the infirmary beds, rolling to face the wall as she waited for the dull hum to resolve into a connection.
“Hello?” A smooth voice floated out cautiously, and Glory’s heart skipped a beat. Her brother’s face appeared in the dull wash of light, and her chest went tight with emotion.
“Hello Jophiel,” she murmured, tension and levity warring within her at hearing his voice after so long. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
Chapter Sixteen
Foster waited impatiently for Gabe’s portal to form, the rift in the air growing wider before the other man’s silhouette appeared in the glimmering gap. Gabe slowly came into view, poking first his head through with a roguish grin before the rest of him followed.
“Foster Flake,” there was a smile in his words, but Foster was not smiling.
“It’s interesting, Gabe,” he began speaking without preamble, too frustrated to restrain himself. “I went to the Church yesterday, and I spoke with Praeceptor Sceros, and it’s justsostrange?—”
“What are you rambling about, Foster?” Gabe sighed. “Also, your manners are terrible. Hi, how are you? Yes, I would love a drink, thank you.”
“No drinks, Gabe, and no more bullshit,” Foster snapped. “You told me these rituals were from the Gospel of Lazarus, so I have to assume you’ve read it. I wouldalsolove to read it, but the book is missing.”
“Ah.” Gabe sank into one of the armchairs in Foster’s living room, summoning his own glass of wine with a snap of his fingers. “Yes, I took it.”
“So I have to wonder—” Foster caught himself mid-sentence, and the anger rushed out of him like a deflating balloon. “Wait, you what?”
“I took it,” Gabe repeated, casually sipping his pinot noir. “It doesn’t belong in the hands of mortals.”
Foster paused for a long moment, processing this information. It seemed the praeceptor had at least a portion of his crazy stories right, after all. He took a seat in the other armchair, steepling his fingers together and pressing until the tips of his skin went white, while counting slowly to ten in his head.
When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. “May I please read it?”
“You don’t need to, really,” Gabe dismissed the request. “I’ve studied it cover to cover; I have it memorized.”
“Yes,” Foster continued to speak in his carefully modulated tone, though frustration was straining it. “ButIhaven’t, andI’mthe one performing these rituals, right?”
Gabe beamed. “And you’re doing splendidly with my guidance!”
“Gabe!” Foster groaned. “Can you please, just once, see me as an equal and let me read the damned thing myself? I’d rather go into these things feeling prepared, not waiting for you to dole out scraps of information when it suits you!”
The older man sighed, setting down his glass of wine and leaning towards Foster. “You will not like what you read.”
“That’s for me to decide,” Foster rebuffed. “You can’t treat me like a child and then hand me such heavy obligations.”
“You’re right,” Gabe sighed, leaning back in the seat. He picked up his glass and lifted it to the light, examining the dark liquid within. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He extended his free hand, palm up, and a small, hidebound journal with a cover worn from age and years of handlingappeared. He tossed the little book to Foster, who snatched it gratefully from the air.
He opened the book carefully and began to read. The pages within were delicate and inked in old Hebrew. His translation was slow and clunky at first, since he rarely used the language, but he began to piece things together. He skimmed through crossed out sections, annotated with frustrated notes on why or how another test had failed, focusing on the parts of the diary that seemed to denote proper rituals.
