Beneath the Skin

32 IN THIS TWILIGHT

THE HALL OF VOICES, GEHENNA

March 26

HEKATE SLIPPED OUT OF the golden and gleaming hall and into the starlit night. A complicated and trilling chorus of wybrcathl rang behind her; a melodious and heated debate regarding the future of the unnamed creawdwr still eluding the Elohim, free and unbound in the mortal world.

Hekate glanced over her shoulder, her pulse winging through her veins. Beyond the glittering hall’s wide mouth, Gabriel walked before the gathering in a royal blue kilt, his golden wings fluttering in emphasis as his smooth and honeyed voice detailed his plans for the creawdwr and the Elohim.

Plans that didn’t require the creawdwr’s consent.

“We need both—tradition and a new age—and we need a sane creawdwr to achieve them,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying above the tumult of song.

“The creawdwr has turned our emissaries to stone!”

A smile touched Gabriel’s lips. “So the Morningstar claims. I find it intriguing that he, out of all of them, managed to remain flesh.”

“It’s a sign. The creawdwr is saying things need to change. Gehenna should die and so should all the old ways. It’s time to begin fresh, to join the mortal and vampire worlds, and craft a new and golden age with a young Maker to lead us.”

“A creawdwr who’s already insane?”

“Soon this very young Maker will be bound and stabilized by strong and caring calon-cyfaills, and ready to take his place on the Chaos Seat,” Gabriel said.

Wybrcathl quieted. The burring buzz of chalkydri wings echoed through the hall as the little demons helped the nephilim servants fetch and pour iced pitchers of wine.

“But,” Gabriel continued, “perhaps it is time Gehenna was allowed to fade away.” His golden wings fluttered, capturing attention. “And a new Gehenna created.”

Shocked and outraged songs pealed through the air at Gabriel’s words. Hekate unfolded her gleaming white wings and launched herself into the fragrant spring evening.

She hoped her plan would work. She hoped that Gabriel and his high-blood old guard debated the creawdwr’s and Gehenna’s future late into the night.

Her wings cut like blades through the chilly air, each stroke bringing her closer to the Royal Aerie’s east terrace where Lucien awaited her. Ghost-pale moonlight rippled along the mouths of the aeries she flew past.

As she kited down to the terrace, Lucien tipped his face up from the balcony he leaned against. A handsome face, but each passing day siphoned away more of its vitality, dimmed the heat in his black eyes to embers.

She saw the golden coil of her geis looped around his mind: You would be forbidden to leave my side.

And felt his snaking warm around her thoughts in return: You would be forbidden to lead anyone to my son or reveal his location.

Hekate’s sandaled feet lit on the marble floor and she fluttered to a stop, folding her wings behind her. Lucien saluted her with his glass of plum purple wine.

“Very pretty,” he said. “I enjoy watching you fly.”

She joined him at the balustrade. “A debate is taking place at the Hall of Voices,” she said. “We should leave as soon as I have you disguised.”

Lucien nodded, then tossed back the last of his wine. “Do you need anything from me?” he asked, swiveling around to face her.

Weariness etched his face, pooled dark beneath his eyes. At times, his skin seemed almost translucent. Gabriel’s punishment—binding Lucien’s fate to the dying land—seemed cruel to her. But perhaps it was deserved. Lucien was a murderer, after all. Calon-cyfaill to the creawdwr he’d slaughtered. A chill shuddered along the length of Hekate’s body; it was an unthinkable betrayal.

“No,” Hekate said. “Just hold still and keep quiet until I complete the illusion.”

Lucien set his empty glass on the balcony’s edge, then straightened, head high. Hekate plucked energy out of the air, shaping it and weaving it around Lucien, chewing on her lower lip in concentration.

A quick bending of light rays finished her illusion. Lucien looked nothing like himself, his hair red, eyes green, his build slimmer and his face angled and sharp, his wings golden.

Hekate blew out her breath, then nodded. “Hold still,” she said, stepping behind him. She sparked blue flame into the bands on his wings. Seals melted and they fell apart, clinking onto the marble floor. She scooped the pieces up and tossed them into the night.

“Ah,” Lucien sighed, unfolding his wings. He flexed and fluttered them, tested their strength.

“Are you strong enough to fly?” Hekate asked.

“If I’m not, let me fall.”

“Not very helpful,” she said, turning away from him. She touched Menakel’s waiting mind and the dark-haired nephilim servant padded past the guards and onto the terrace.

Hekate nodded at the couch. Without a word, Menakel went to it and laid down. She crossed the terrace, the nephilim’s eyes drinking in each stride, then knelt beside his couch. She bent, kissed his lips, and murmured, “Thank you.”

“Just don’t get caught,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered more night energy and wove another illusion. A few minutes later, Lucien, wings banded, regarded her from the couch with dark eyes.

Joining the true Lucien at the balustrade once more, she said, “Shall we?”

A smile curved his lips. “Try to stop me.” Walking to the terrace’s open edge, he threw himself into the star-pricked sky.

Hekate’s heart skipped a beat when he dropped from sight, but he rose a moment later, his false golden wings stroking through the air.

With a final glance at Menakel on the couch, Hekate snapped out her wings and followed Lucien to Gehenna’s gate.

GABRIEL WALKED AWAY FROM the symphony of debate in the hall, seeking fresh air out on the terrace, seeking a glimpse of Hekate’s white wings slicing through the night.

He wondered if she was even now flying from Gehenna and into the mortal world with an illusion-draped Samael winging at her side.

He rested his forearms on the cool stone balcony. He’d glimpsed the geis she’d placed upon the murdering aingeal and had known what she intended to do.

Search for her mother and her calon-cyfaill.

Ah, but Samael would search for the Maker and would, no doubt, find him. As would the agent Gabriel had tasked with following the pair.

Another part of him insisted that he not allow Samael and Hekate to escape, to have them captured at the gate and both tossed into Sheol.

But doubt chained his mind. The Morningstar claimed to be following the creawdwr. Claimed him to be Fola Fior and Elohim. Claimed him to be injured. But honesty had never been the Morningstar’s gift.

Samael had said the Morningstar played games. True. But they all were guilty of that charge—games within games within games.

Insanity hadn’t caused the creawdwr to turn Gehenna’s emissaries into stone. No, Gabriel was quite certain that it had been done at Samael’s command. And it was just as certain that Samael had sent Lilith into a trap, knowing what awaited the Elohim who answered the Maker’s anhrefncathl.

Samael was guilty of the very thing he’d accused Gabriel of—chaining a creawdwr to his will. But what did he hope to accomplish? Could he be planning to reclaim Gehenna’s Black-Starred throne?

Of course, if the creawdwr couldn’t be located until after Gehenna and treacherous Samael had faded out of existence, he’d no longer need to worry about Samael’s possible plans.

<As you warned, the Lady Hekate has left with the prisoner Samael,> the captain of the royal guard sent. <Do you wish me to pursue?>

Gabriel studied the star-flecked night. Good question. A very good question.

Despite their centuries together, despite the fact that he’d never denied her anything, Hekate had sought help from his enemy—an aingeal who would trick and use her, despite her geis, instead of simply asking for Gabriel’s assistance in searching for her loved ones trapped in the mortal world.

A child’s game. A foolish girl. But useful.

Gabriel’s talons bit into his palms. He felt the hot trickle of blood.

<Yes. Pursue and capture them. Shroud them both in chains and drop them into Sheol.>

<Both, my lord?>

<Both.>

Perhaps the Morningstar would be more forthcoming once he learned his daughter hung chained in Sheol’s embered guts.

Games within games within games.