“I thought they were lovers,” I mused. Perhaps it was out-of-turn, but judging from Santiago’s earlier reaction, I didn’t think he’d care to share the young man with anyone, much less the likes of me.
Azrael was silent, perhaps deeming that bit of gossip beneath him.
“There is coin in your account for such pursuits,” he said stiffly. “Are you adhering to our contract?”
The Thrones, who’d sentenced me and later set the terms of my release, forbade me from maintaining a regular host or bonding with a human. Emotional attachments had the potential to corrupt me, and the gods were forever worried I might join my mother in her demonic campaigns. But the rule with the direst of consequences: I was not permitted, under any circumstances, to inquire about, search for, or attempt to reclaim my bloodborn body.
“Yes, my lord, I am.”
Satisfied with my answer, Azrael turned to the topic of one of his greatest and most longstanding adversaries, my mother.
“Your visit with Lena is approaching.”
I nodded. Many years ago, after my release from captivity, the Thrones forbade me from making contact with my mother for fear she might try to corrupt me. But she railed against them and threatened retribution until the Thrones conceded.
The compromise they reached on my behalf was a kind of visitation schedule. Every decade or so, my mother and I met face-to-face to catch up. Despite our falling out, I remained one of her favorite projects—the wayward son with whom she simply couldn’t cut ties.
“She will tempt you,” Azrael said ominously. “Our seers have foretold it.”
The Order of Angels had several prophets in their ranks who acted as seers. Demons were staunch proponents of free will, but angels liked to have things neat and tidy. And so, they often relied on oracles to predict how existing circumstances might culminate. But they were careful about issuing prophecies wantonly, for there was always the opportunity for a twist of fate.
“She always does,” I answered mildly. “And I always resist her.”
“This time will be different,” Azrael warned but didn’t offer me any further details.
I raised myself off the chair and prostrated before him. I bowed until my nose touched the floor and reached my hands forward in a posture of supplication, one that angels favored.
“I am loyal to you, Azrael, and our sacred work. Were it not for you, I’d be trapped in that infernal forest, a mercy for which I am eternally grateful. My mother is not my master, as she has not been for a very long time.”
When Azrael spoke, it was with uncharacteristic warmth and benevolence. My influence over the gods was limited, but seduction was a power that only grew stronger with time.
“I am encouraged to hear you declare your loyalty, Henri, but your faith will be tested. There are rumblings among the gods of another rebellion, with your mother at the forefront.”
I glanced up in an attempt to learn more from his expression, but Azrael was as stoic as ever.
“I have no wish to involve myself with her insurgencies,” I said truthfully. “I only wish to serve in your ranks as a reaper until the gods have forgiven my crimes.”
“Yes, Henri, I believe that is true, but demons have a way of perverting even our best disciples, so be vigilant. And shield yourself from the forces who wish to corrupt you.”
With a light touch to the crown of my head, Azrael bestowed his blessing upon me, then departed from my presence. I rose to find Santiago glaring at me with unmasked loathing. I remembered what Azrael suggested about his former lover and mentioned it to him. Santiago did not take it well.
“If any harm comes to Xavier because of you, I will have your spirit bound to a body and bury you in cement.”
I smiled and tipped my host’s hat in his direction.
“Always a pleasure, Santiago.”
9
Orlando
My boyfriend was a ghost. Or an angel. Maybe a vampire? I still wasn’t sure what you were exactly, and whenever I asked, you blew me off. Typical Henri. All I knew was that I heard your voice and felt your presence during most of my waking hours. And whenever I called for you, you came.
Was this how Joan of Arc felt when she was waging war on the English? Was the archangel Michael her Henri? According to legend, he made her great, but he also led her to her death. And when the English imprisoned Joan and burned her at the stake, her angel didn’t come to her rescue. Did she die believing she was a hero, or did she die thinking she’d been used?
Or maybe Joan was mentally ill.
At least you weren’t asking me to lead any revolts, only to make it into Miami City Ballet’s pre-professional program. My audition was only a few weeks away. Madame Lavoie had helped me fill out my application and choose my solo. She said they gave out scholarships, and with their financial aid package, my mother should be able to afford my tuition.
