Everlong: (Book One of the Everlong Trilogy) (21 page)

Because inside I was dying.

At times the task looked impossible; how was I to know where the Relics were, where Hyperion would begin, or how many lives would be lost in his search? How was I, not even a true angel, a freak, supposed to stop him?

And, no matter how much I was possessed by my quest to find Hyperion, I never forgot about Evie. That wouldn't have been possible, however I tried to distract myself. My wings continually burned for her, burned for a love I never had, a love I would never receive.

My quest, my love for Evie, was all-consuming, a fever driving me on. I lost sight of myself, lost sight of Obadiah and what effect all of this, and my presence, was having on him.

A madness grew inside me, pulling me down into a dark, dark place. A place that, if I fell too far or too hard, I would never be able to escape from.

The madness grew strong, feeding on my neuroses, driving me to keep asking Obadiah about the mysteries of the Fallen. At first he avoided the subject, tried to get me to concentrate on the Relics, on the Nazis, on coffee, on anything other than the question I really needed answering. The one question that mattered above everything else.

And then one day I grabbed his hand. It trembled beneath mine, small, fragile, and yet with a strength that pounded through his veins like wild horses. 'I need to know about the Fallen,' I asked, looking up into his weary face.

'But-'

'Obadiah, I...I need to know. Not knowing is like a poison and it's driving me mad.'

The air became heavy and a sadness swept into the room, like an incoming tide, washing away the light, the hope.

'Come on Obadiah, I know you know something. Hyperion said it didn't have to be this way, that Death could've made me a Fallen-'

'Ignore anything he told you. He's too far gone, gripped in his own madness. His thinking is disjointed and confused. Just look at how his music is corrupted, at them evil things he's trying to do-'

'I need to know,' I said, cupping his shaking hand in mine. The pain was not so severe now, it had subsided into a burning sensation; painful but not all so consuming that it had me on my knees. 'I just need to know if it's possible.'

Obadiah shook his head. 'It's just the talk of a crazy angel.'

My hands fell away from his and I leaned back in my chair, defeated. I closed my eyes and imagined Evie stood in front of me, pictured the way her ebony hair fell over her shoulders, the way she walked, the smell of her skin, her emerald eyes. Even in my imagination she was beautiful, in reality she was breath-taking.

'She was seven when I first saw her. I'd gone to collect a soul, nothing unusual, just some guy who'd got cancer, like so many I have taken.' I paused, remembering the moment I first saw her. 'She was nestled next to him on the bed, her arm draped over his chest, her ebony hair cascading around her like a wild river. Her aura was so strong and pure like the light of a new born star. I was star struck.'

'It's unusual for a human to have such a pure aura.'

I nodded, but didn't look at him, too lost in my own thoughts. 'But that was nothing compared to her eyes. When she looked up at me, her emerald eyes took me off guard. They paralysed me, seduced me with their beauty. I knew she shouldn't be able to see me, but she did. In that one moment, that one look,' I clicked my fingers, 'my whole world changed forever. Inside me, it was like someone had kick-started my heart back to life. I knew it was love, though it shouldn't be possible...but still, it pulses around my body like the blood in my veins. She is my purpose, my reason, my life. Without her...' Finally I looked up at him, my eyes pleading with him to help me.

'Obadiah knows,' he said, smiling wistfully. 'When I first looked into my Nancy's eyes I knew I loved her...them eyes, oh them eyes were like amber kissed by the midday sun.' He smiled, and tenderly put his hand to his face, as though he was trying to recapture some long-lost moment. 'That was such a long, long time ago.'

'You miss her very much.'

He sighed again, it was long and mournful, almost like a cry of physical pain. 'Miss is such a small word for the hole she has left in my soul.' He opened his eyes and I could see tears gathering at their corners. He placed his hand on his heart. 'Sometimes...sometimes I think it could eat me alive.'

'I have loved Evie for all of my life, and my life before this, and maybe even the one before that, I just didn't know it until I had met her.'

'And she feels the same way?'

His words felt like a knife plunging into my heart and I thought my pain would come tumbling out of the freshly cut wound. 'She doesn't even know I exist.'

'But being a Fallen would not solve that. You cannot force someone to love you, and if she didn't, what then?'

'I-'

'She would die, you would live, alone, for centuries. Have you any idea what that feels like?'

'It's a price I am willing to pay. I would live a thousand lifetimes just for the chance...maybe she could love me...given time...'

Obadiah fell silent, regarding me with his unseeing, but all seeing, eyes. He flopped back in his chair, and sighed.

'Give me a moment,' he said, finally. He slid out from his seat and hobbled away.

It was only then that I noticed the subtle changes in Obadiah's music; it was growing weaker, almost like life was being sucked from it. I was draining him, in so many ways, and I knew I couldn't stay there much longer. One way or another something had to happen, something had to change.

'That is what you need,' said Obadiah, shuffling back into view, a small pile of papyrus held together by a bow of black ribbon. 'Them pages will tell you them answers that you seek.'

I took the pile of papyrus from Obadiah's hands and placed it on the table in front of me, staring at it, in awe of it, and yet, not daring to open it because of what its delicate pages might tell me. What if this was the end of the line?

I didn't look up as Obadiah said, 'I'll leave you to it,' and walked away.

The papyrus was burnt around the edges, like it had been in a fire, and it smelt of smoke and mould. I rubbed the soot away from the cover with my thumb, revealing the golden letters; The Mysteries of the Angels.

I pulled at the black bow and turned the first page over. The paper was as thick as card and yet fragile, the separate reeds beginning to unthread from each other on the edges. On the second page a list of contents were elaborately written on the paper in shimmering angelic script. I traced my eyes over it until I came to the section that I needed; On The Fallen. I turned the sheets, a heady mix of anxiety and excitement pulsing through me, like a child on Christmas Eve.

I began to read:

'The Fallen Angel is a most rare creature, an angel who has turned away from the love of God and, instead, has embraced the love of a mortal.

'The angel who wishes to fall must be pure, in both mind and body, so that they have a place in Heaven to fall from.

'The ritual of Falling is a simple one; first the angel must take an infusion of Asphodel before saying the words: Although changed, I shall arise the same. Finally, to complete the transformation, the angel must fall from a place of great height in a symbolic gesture of Falling from Heaven.

'The Fallen Angel will be stripped of their wings, and will be exiled from Heaven. After the ritual has taken place, a Fallen Angel cannot regain their wings, nor can they re-enter Heaven.

'This is the price a Fallen Angel must pay, for although God still loves them, their love for a mortal has supplanted their love for Him in their hearts. An angel, above all else, must have a pure heart.

'But, be warned, It is a treacherous and torturous path to tread; A Fallen Angel will know much suffering and pain as they outlive the mortal they have Fallen for.

'Once this path is taken, there is no turning back.'

I didn't even know I was crying until the tears began to pound on the papyrus like rain. So Death had told the truth; I couldn't become a Fallen. I pushed the papers away from me and let despair take me into her arms.

Hope was destroyed; only ash and dust was left.

I stood up and tipped over the table with a savage roar, sending the papyrus, books and coffee crashing to the floor as my rage unleashed like a hurricane.

I raced out of the house and into the cold New York night.

No more.

I couldn't do it.

I was finished.

So Death wanted a life? Well, She could have mine, the debt would then be repaid.

I would do as She asked; I would find Hyperion.

But I wouldn't stop him.

No.

If Death wouldn't destroy me, I would get Hyperion to do it. He had that power.

The time for reading and talking was over.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, I would find him and provoke him enough to destroy me.

I would get him to kill me.

Josh

Now all I had to do was find him.

I had studied many books dedicated to the Apocalyptic Relics. I knew that the Spear of Longinus, needed to induce the blood of Jesus, had been rumoured to have been found by the Nazis but where it rested now was a matter of dispute. Some thought it lay abandoned in Russia, others that it remained hidden in the bowels of Wewelsburg Castle in Germany, and then there were the thousands of other Spears that had been claimed to be that of Longinus, in places such as Rome, Vienna and Antakya. Where would I start? How did I know which lance was the true lance?

And then there was the Holy Grail; that too could have been hidden in one of many possible locations; from Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland, to Tintagel Castle or Stonehenge in England, or was it hidden in the bowels of the Louvre, the Sanctuary of Montserrat, or Malta?

Or the Key of Solomon? There were some who denied its existence, one scholar who claimed it was hidden in the Bodleian Library of the University of Oxford, another that it was in the personal collection of Samuel Gollancz.

And as for the trail of blood Hyperion would inevitably leave, thankfully, that particular river hadn't started running yet; there had been no other reports of unexpected deaths since the murder of Lysithea.

There was only one way to find him, even though it would be exhausting and like looking for a tear drop in the ocean; I would have to track down his music amongst the sea of other angelic harmonies. Finding him this way was going to be difficult, even more so than finding him at the Castel as then, at least, I had a rough location, an idea of where he had been. Now, Hyperion could be anywhere on earth or even in the Heavens, one discordant melody in a whole orchestra of angels.

I ran from Obadiah's house, knowing that there was no way he could follow, no way he could stop me. I cleared a few blocks before I stopped running, keeping a safe distance between me and Obadiah. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow, and in the sky, the thin sliver of the waning moon was barely glowing.

I concentrated on the blackest part of the night's sky I could find, let its darkness take my mind, let it anaesthetise my soul. Slowly, the Harlem skyline vanished - the trees, the townhouses, the apartment blocks - and with it the sounds of the city disappeared, until all I could hear was nothing but the harmonies of the angels near to me.

In amongst this angelic symphony I could hear Obadiah's sorrowful notes. I concentrated on this, allowing the music to transform in my mind, letting it take on shape and form until it twirled in front of me, a thin tendril of musical pain. I focused on it, allowing the other angelic tunes to develop behind it. Once all the parts of this celestial orchestra were fully formed, I pushed Obadiah's music away and allowed the other stems of angelic music to sparkle and dance in front of me, like a ghostly ballet. Thousands of interconnecting lines, almost like veins running through a body, ran across my vision; a visual picture of the celestial music of the thousands of angels in Heaven and upon earth.

In amongst the plethora of musical threads, I searched for the tainted, blackened tune of Hyperion, willing his song, and the visual interpretation of it, to reveal itself to me.

And there, barely beating in the sea of vibrant threads of life, was Hyperion's music, a raging inferno encased in a suffocating black tar-like substance. I concentrated on his blackened thread and started to let the other threads of beautiful angelic music fade away, until all that was left was the corrupted thread of Hyperion weaving through the landscape like a living compass point, a polluted umbilical cord of evil.

Filled with rage I took off, following the blackened thread through the landscape, like a wolf following the scent of its prey. It hissed and spit and scratched, a discordant melody of murder that fuelled my rage and the lust for my death further.

Soon I was flying over the Atlantic ocean, and although its deep water was calm, there was something sinister lurking in the air, something dark and unstable. And violent.

Hyperion's dark thread was pulling me across the sea, leading me towards the south-west corner of England, and straight into the heart of the violence.