They Who Fell (20 page)

“You,” said Nefta, pointing at Rhamiel. “You think yourself lord of the tower. You think you can do whatever you like without consequence. You steal away with my servant, into your little tent. My very, very disobedient harlot of a servant.” She glanced at Jana with a sneer, shooting daggers at her and quivering with anger.

“Nefta,” said Rhamiel. “You must calm yourself. You’re putting the warriors on edge with this outburst.”

“I love you,” said Nefta. “I loved you.”

“Nefta, we barely know one another,” said Rhamiel. “We shared the same task in heaven, and mustn’t have spoken to each other more than a few dozen times in all the centuries we were there.”

“It’s my face,” said Nefta. “You longed for me up there. Don’t think I don’t know. Back when I was perfection itself, you longed for me. Now I’m this beast, and you think I’m nothing. You can’t know how that feels, to turn from enchantress to monstrosity. How it warps every moment I live. How I burn again inside each time one of the servants looks at me and flinches. You can’t know how you’ve hurt me.”

“I don’t deny I once had feelings,” said Rhamiel. “But you knew, and up there you did nothing but avoid me. You had no interest of your own, not until we fell. How am I to take this sudden infatuation?”

“You were everything to me,” said Nefta. “You consumed me. Tell him, girl. You’ve seen. Tell him my love is true.”

Jana stammered, looking from one to the other and back again, not sure what to say. In the end, she said nothing.

“I trusted you,” said Nefta, looking at Jana, her voice filled with hurt. “I loved you. I loved you both, and all you do is pile indignities upon me.” She said it with an anguish that was as intense and as honest as her venom had been just seconds before. She truly believed it, and truly felt it, though what she truly felt from one moment to the next was as apt to change as the weather.

“Come, girl,” said Nefta, snapping her fingers and flipping around as she began to leave. “You’re my servant, and it’s time to learn the meaning of punishment. I plan to consult with Ecanus, and leave that work to a specialist. I don’t think I have his talent for it.”

“I’m afraid she’s had a change of masters,” said Rhamiel, holding tightly to Jana’s hand. “She’s taken the pledge.”

There was a gasp all around. This was more than unorthodox. The proper thing to do would have been to have left Jana to Nefta’s service, as the first to have staked a claim. But Nefta wasn’t helping her cause with her behavior. It was erratic, even for them, and everyone around was content to stay on the sidelines in this particular dispute.

“You whore,” said Nefta, tears flowing from her eyes. “You stole him away from me. You wormed your way into my chambers and into my heart, and then you cleaved it in two. This was your plot from the beginning. You may have each other, then. Let him destroy you the way he’s destroyed me.” She spun around and fled, disappearing into the masses and leaving a stunned silence behind her.

“It seems the party has dragged on quite too long, at least for me,” said Rhamiel, leading Jana away as the rest looked on. “It’s time I made my preparations for the Hunt.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“T
wo pounds of meat and a flask. That’s what we’ve got, and the highest we can go. You want more, then we’ll go there on our own. You can get nothing, and you can explain to your bosses if we don’t show up on time.” Holt had been negotiating for twenty minutes, as the Vichies probed with offers to see how far they could push him, and how desperate he was.

“Put it in the back,” said the Vichy, nodding to a pickup filled with sacks and crates. He was thin and gangly, with spider webs tattooed across his lower arms that almost hid the track marks that dotted anywhere a vein had once been found. He was apparently their leader, or at least the most lucid one at the moment. “Stay behind the blue one. Run outta gas and you gotta pay more. I don’t care about no letter.” He pointed to a dark blue van, and stumbled towards the head of the convoy, leaving them to take their place in the line of vehicles.

They’d waited for the Vichies outside New York City, knowing they’d encounter a group of them sooner or later. The Perch had to be supplied, and the convoys went in and out at least once a week. They alone could move unharried through the city streets, and they stuck to a single path that had been cleared and led directly to it. It was dangerous for the Vichies; anyone who watched closely enough knew precisely where to find them. Holt himself had been a part of a cell that had regularly ambushed them a few years before, hoping to starve the angels out of their stronghold. But there were always more Vichies, no matter how many were lost, and striking at the angels’ supply lines had resulted in a swift reaction. The convoys’ locations were predictable, but so were those of anyone hoping to attack them. The angels had swarmed around the route, watching it until they managed an ambush of their own, and the survivors of the earlier cell had abandoned the strategy in the aftermath.

They pulled into their appointed position, and waited for things to begin moving. The Vichies were hoisting their flags, large white blankets waving from poles attached to the trucks or spread across their backs so they could be easily seen from the air. None of them wanted to be mistakenly targeted or seen as a threat, and part of the purpose of the convoy was to make their group as large and as conspicuous as possible. It was unwise to travel alone, not with what some of the angels were capable of. A small group might disappear without comment, where a larger one would surely provoke the ire of someone awaiting its cargo if it were molested.

A few men were congregating near the hood of the car behind them, snorting lines of something up their noses and yelling loudly in celebration after each one. This was a task best performed by the expendable, and preferably while their minds were bathed in a pleasant haze that would distract them from the risk they were taking. It wasn’t unusual for one of them to anger their masters somehow, and it was better not to think of the consequences if they did. Only the least of the Vichies ever ended up with this duty, shanghaied into doing so by their superiors. The addicted were ideal candidates, and they were more than willing to make the trip in exchange for a reprieve from their cravings.

The engines at the fore of the convoy began to growl, and one by one the trucks started up and started to move. They fell in line behind the van in front of them, following it through the city streets as they turned through the blocks along the convoy’s familiar path. They could see faces in the back of the van, little children sneaking glances out of the windows as they went. The Perch needed a steady supply of new servants, and it needed them young, the better to break them in before they’d acquired such inconvenient and distasteful habits as backtalk or thinking for themselves.

They went slowly, maneuvering around debris or holes in the pavement of the streets. They weren’t the only ones on bikes. The convoy had a motorcycle gang of its own, who spent most of the trip circling from one end to the other, harassing the rest of the Vichies and occasionally scouting ahead. It didn’t add much to their safety, as any attack would come from either the buildings or the skies above. But the theater of it made them feel better, and gave everyone the sense that something was being done to protect them. There was little incentive to object; doing so would only risk branding the objector as responsible in the event that something did go wrong. It was easier to continue the charade and let the bikers enjoy their minor powers and sense of authority, no matter how futile it was or how much annoyance they inflicted for so little purpose.

As they came nearer to the Perch, they started seeing sentries up on the buildings, watching them from the ledges above like living gargoyles. None of them moved or even acknowledged their presence, and the only sign they were alive was the movement of their wings. Finally, they came to the edges of what was left of the city, opening up into a vast urban desert that surrounded the Perch itself. Nothing around it was standing, other than piles of rubble. Concrete dust blew around them, and they half expected a tumbleweed or two to roll past. They had to crane their necks upward to take it all in. It seemed impossible that the structure was stable, as it had little symmetry and no discernable rules governing its design. It looked like a giant heap of melted slag, piled roughly into the shape of a building and looming up into the skies.

They rolled through the wasteland surrounding it and approached the entrance at its base, a great, cavernous mouth that opened into the bottom levels. One of the servants inside walked out to greet them, approaching the bikers at the fore of the convoy and waving them inside.

“Last chance,” said Faye, as the vehicles at the head of the convoy began to disappear into the Perch.

“I think the last chance was a while ago,” said Dax. “Anyone who turns around now isn’t going to make it.”

They followed closely behind the van, and the children inside grew more and more agitated as they entered. It was dark, lit only with torches, and they could hear them shouting and banging on the windows to try to get someone’s attention. There was nothing they could do, not without ruining their plans, but Holt kept a close eye on Thane. He was staring straight ahead, clenching his hands tightly on the bike’s grips, and looking like he was about to burst. He managed to keep things under control, but only just.

They rolled towards a loading dock, built to handle multiple vehicles at a time. The entire area had been turned into a warehouse, storing goods until the servants had a chance to haul them upward to wherever they were needed. Hordes of them scrambled to unload the convoy’s cargo, dragging it by hand into loosely organized stacks of boxes and crates. A few of the angels were lazily supervising the efforts, which mostly consisted of chatting among themselves and occasionally walking close enough to the servants to terrorize them into working more efficiently.

No one paid any attention to them as they dismounted the bikes. They didn’t even have to work to look inconspicuous, given the commotion that the Vichies were making. A few had control of themselves, but most were far along whatever trip their drugs had taken them on. The smarter ones stayed in their vehicles, letting the residents of the Perch do the real work as they enjoyed their high and waited in line. The dumber ones got out to explore, getting in the way, making noise, and generally being a nuisance. The Vichies didn’t often interact with the angels directly, and some hadn’t developed the healthy fear of them that was inculcated into the servants. They all soon did.

One of the Vichies was screaming loud, angry challenges to imaginary enemies conjured from the depths of his brain. He was a bear of a man, loaded with muscle and waving a machete as he paced back and forth, eyes wild and spit flying from his lips. A nearby angel gave him a stern look, but he didn’t see the warning and didn’t heed it. When he passed too close, the angel grabbed him by the throat, lifting him up and snapping his neck mid-air in a single, smooth motion before dropping him to the floor. He lay there twitching as the angel casually went back to his conversation, leaving the other Vichies to watch in horror. They immediately became more subdued, while the servants responded by pushing themselves to unload as quickly as possible.

“How long has it been?” said Holt, turning to Faye as they all walked alongside the convoy and towards the loading dock.

“Last one was about an hour and a half ago,” said Faye.

“Pop another,” said Holt. “They’re going to catch on sooner or later, but I’d prefer later.”

They headed for a dark hallway that the servants were running in and out of like little ants, carrying loads to the chambers inside. Holt had coached them to walk with purpose and authority, as if they had every reason in the world to be heading to the interior. All of them but Dax could manage it. He couldn’t mask his constitutional nervousness, and watching the angels up close wasn’t helping. He gripped the suitcase tightly like a life preserver, leaving the others to haul heavier duffel bags on their backs.

“What exactly are you doing?” called one of the servants. He was holding a clipboard, checking off the supplies that were most urgently needed as they were moved inside. It was impossible to organize it all given the volume and the Vichies’ tendency to dump everything together inside the crates. But individual angels were constantly making requests, and someone had to be responsible for promptly fulfilling them if the servants wanted to avoid punishment.

“They told us to go inside, we go inside,” said Holt, not even pausing as they walked onward.

“I didn’t tell you to go inside,” said the servant. “No one just tells you to go inside. They’ll kill you if they catch you in there without permission. You don’t like life out there, tough. You’re too old to adjust, and too stupid to follow rules. Now get back to where you’re supposed to be or I’ll refer the matter to one of them.”

Holt started to argue, but he didn’t need to. A voice came from the hallway, causing the servant to immediately abandon his attitude and go back to his clipboard. “It’s okay. They’re needed inside, and they won’t be long.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“G
et another washcloth,” said Jana to one of the other servants. “Nice and damp.” They’d been treating Peter’s wounds for weeks, but he wasn’t looking much better. He’d gone for too long without any help, and there were no doctors around to turn to. They’d done the best they could, clearing out a storage room to give him some space to himself and rounding up some salves and creams that had trickled in from the outside. He’d started to heal, slowly, but home remedies wouldn’t do much for the scars that were already hardening all over his face.

Rhamiel had been good to his word, and he’d managed what she’d thought impossible: finally freeing Peter from Ecanus’s grip. It had been a hard sell, and once Ecanus knew he had a valuable bargaining chip, he didn’t let go easily. He’d been offered a prime position of honor in the Hunt, and in exchange he’d agreed to leave Jana alone. He’d have had to anyway, now that she was pledged, but Rhamiel thought a boost to his ego would make releasing the grudge a little bit easier. Besides, it was safer to keep him occupied outside of the tower while Rhamiel was away.

Ultimately, it was Abraxos who’d clinched the deal for Peter’s freedom, or more specifically the chambers he’d left unoccupied after his death. They were high up in the tower, a prized location, and the squabbling over who would inherit them had been unrelenting ever since the Conclave had met. He’d had to pull a lot of strings, but Rhamiel had secured it for Ecanus, and he’d been happily preening around the tower ever since. The location of the chambers had an added advantage: the entrance was embedded high in the tower walls, well away from the ramp. Abraxos had liked his solitude, and there was no way to access his home without a pair of wings. Ecanus couldn’t take Peter with him, and had been forced to let him live somewhere else as part of the deal. A pledge was still a pledge, but Ecanus had promised to stay away from him, for whatever his own word was worth.

Rhamiel had led her down here, back to her home, for a final visit before he left on his expedition. It was supposed to be short, but she ended up staying far longer than she’d expected. She’d wanted to spend the time while he was away in his chambers; they were wonderful, and had their own balcony with a view of everything below. But he wouldn’t have it; he lived in the center of things, where other angels were constantly walking past. Nefta or anyone else could come by at any time without looking conspicuous. He obsessed over what to do for days, and finally insisted she stay with the servants below, someplace he knew she’d be safe and comfortable while he was away. Any angel who went down there for anything other than a meal would stick out like a sore thumb, and would have no reason to mingle with the servants in their quarters. He finally left her there, but not without having a long talk with Sam about keeping her away from anyone from up above, whether they be angel or servant.

She didn’t come alone. The best of the warriors all insisted on participating in the Hunt, and there was virtually no chance of dissuading them. It had been years since they’d gone on a campaign, and while this was smaller in scale, it had excited everyone in the tower with even the slightest bent towards military activities. But Rhamiel was adamant that Jana needed a guardian—if not the strongest warrior in the tower, then at least the strongest one who’d be left behind. After much consideration and cajoling, he settled on Isda.

Isda had managed the improbable feat of merging muscularity with obesity, making him deceptively dangerous. You wouldn’t think him powerful from his looks, but he was one of the strongest in the tower. He was also one of the laziest, and one of the most obsessive. He couldn’t be bothered to wander the countrysides in search of enemies, and the servants were amazed that he was able to fly at all given his bulk. He’d spent most of his time since the Fall eating, following elaborate rituals before every bite. It was a chore for the servants to have him down below, as it meant preparing a constant stream of dishes which had to be cooked just to his liking, lest they be sent back again and again until they met his standards. But he was strong, he was quick despite his size, and he was loyal to Rhamiel. None of the angels left in the tower would be a match for him if they came looking for trouble, and that was all that mattered.

Jana herself had spent most of her days since Rhamiel had left either sitting by herself in the common room or tending to Peter. She’d passed Sam the note from Cassie, after sneaking a peek at it. It was completely indecipherable, a jumble of letters with no apparent meaning. He seemed excited about it, but wouldn’t tell her what it was, and left her to the others while he pored over its contents. The rest of them were surprisingly uninterested in socializing. Many of her friends had turned out not to be such friends at all, now that she’d moved up in the tower. Sam still cared for her, but the rest of them treated her strangely, a mixture of outsider and outcast. The boys were in awe of her, stumbling over their words and barely capable of speaking to her. They thought her above them now, and didn’t want to risk being on Rhamiel’s bad side by showing any interest. So they kept her at arm’s length, polite but distant. The girls were far worse. They’d teased her before about her interest in Rhamiel, but now they were merciless. None of them would talk to her, or even acknowledge her presence. They made nasty comments right in front of her, laughing about the angels’ “comfort ladies” and wondering aloud whether they laid eggs.

She tried to ignore it, but it still stung. She’d thought they were her friends, and they had been, at least until she had something they all wanted. She started volunteering for her old duties, just for the sake of having something to occupy her mind and keep things from festering inside. At first they left her to the dishes, which no one had any particular desire to do. She kept volunteering for other chores, only to keep being rebuffed. Finally the girls decided to foist her on Isda, after tiring of both their games and his demands. They handed her a plate, pushed her out the door to the sound of snickers, and told her to be on her way, and not to come back until he’d finished.

The halls were empty, but she knew the way. She walked to the dining room, careful not to drop the plate. There wouldn’t be any consequence if she did, not this time, and not from Rhamiel’s underling. But old habits die hard, and she was still afraid of them regardless of their purported allegiances. She knocked on the door before entering, a sound precaution, and when she didn’t hear any objection, she went inside.

“Walk to your left,” said Isda, sitting alone at the table and facing away from her. “You must approach from the left, and serve from my left.” He was an impossible blob of an angel, his mass extending outwards from the chair in either direction. She could see him as she approached, as directed, tapping the back end of his fork onto the table. “One, two, three, four, five,” said Isda, counting the taps. “One, two, three, four, five. Now the right.” He switched the fork to the other hand, and resumed his tapping and his counting.

His scars looked more like blisters, but they covered every ample inch of him. He looked like a bloated beet, stuffed on the inside until it was ready to pop. Most of the other angels had fine physiques, and seeing them you’d be forgiven for thinking they couldn’t gain weight at all. Isda proved otherwise, though he’d been eating virtually nonstop since he’d come to the tower. The servants were shoveling in dozens of meals each and every day, and had been since he’d come down there.

“The peas,” said Isda.

Jana wasn’t sure how to respond. There were certainly peas, a small handful of them piled in a corner of the plate, kept segregated from the other food. A stack of meat filled another corner, and chocolate candies rounded out the meal. It was a strange mix, but he liked what he liked, and there was no one there inclined to argue the matter.

“There’s peas,” said Jana. “I hope you like them.”

“I know there are peas,” said Isda. “I requested the peas. What I did not request were the thoughts of a simpleton. I want to know how many there are.” Isda could be irritable if his culinary demands weren’t met, and he didn’t much care for Jana. She’d tried to be kind to him, as one of Rhamiel’s allies, but he’d had none of that. As far as he was concerned, she was merely a burden and an interruption, a useless beast he’d been forced to babysit.

Jana counted in her head, several times to be sure. “Seventeen,” she said.

“Seventeen,” said Isda. “No more, no less?”

“Seventeen,” said Jana.

“Then place the meal before me,” said Isda. “From the left. Peas up front, and don’t jiggle them. Keep things separate, or you’ll have to go back and start again.” She did as he requested, and stood at attention behind him.

“One, two, three, four, five,” said Isda, tapping the back of his fork on the table. Then he ate a pea—a single pea—and started over again. “One, two, three, four, five. You may go. One, two, three, four, five.” Jana was amazed that he’d ever gained any weight given his rituals, but then, he was at it day in and day out. She opened the door and quietly excused herself, as Isda counted and counted before every bite.

She went back to the kitchens, dreading what the girls would cook up for her next, and was surprised to find them completely empty. Many of the angels were gone, it was true, and so the demand for their services had been unusually light. But Isda alone had been keeping them busy, and they should have been readying another plate. He was working his way through the other, pea by pea, and sooner or later he’d be finished. He’d be liable to be cranky if kept waiting, so she didn’t think it wise for them to simply abandon their posts.

She left the kitchen, walking through the hallways to the common area. As she opened the door, a burst of noise and activity came outward, and she saw that the room was filled, with everyone standing in the center around the fire pit. They all seemed excited, and couldn’t help themselves from loudly chattering to each other. Sam was in the middle of it all, and waved to Jana as he saw her enter.

“Jana,” said Sam. “You must come over here. I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet.”