Seraphs (8 page)

Derek looked at me, loathing leaking like sweat from his pores. He ground out, “I bought it. From a licensed witchy-woman. A mage whore in Atlanta.”

In the silence that followed, Shamus Waldroup bent to the men at the judgment table, murmuring. My hearing is good, but I caught only a word or two before the chairman banged his gavel twice.

“By a majority of judges and elders, Elder Culpepper abstaining, we find that Thorn St. Croix is a legally licensed mage, and all accusations made today are proved false. Unless someone has specific charges against her, charges with hard evidence to back ’em up, I intend to declare this case closed.” When no one offered damning evidence, Shamus banged the gavel once and said, “The accused is found not guilty. In fact, the accused is not and never was the accused. You’re free to go, Thorn, and this bench offers its heartfelt apologies for this fiasco. Prejudice is something we ain’t usually got to contend with in this town. I’m ashamed of my fellow citizens and of my fellow judges.” He banged the gavel again and stood as he spoke. “Recess. I need to get the taste of lies and collusion outta my mouth.”

Intense relief hit me and I shuddered, cold rippling across my skin with a soft jingle of bells. I would have slumped back in the chair, but my shirt’s steel supports held me upright. Audric leaned down and gathered the collar of my cloak, securing it. “Damp your neomage attributes,” he murmured. My hand stole to the amulets, first releasing the shield I had ready, then damping the glow of skin and scars. My flesh dimmed to human, untouched by magery.

“Need I carry you, little mage?” he asked.

I clamped my lips on a witless titter. “No. I’m fine. I think.”

He grinned at me, sculpted, full lips parting, eyes sparkling in his dark-skinned face. “You were magnificent. But if you fall on your ass crossing the stage, you’ll spoil the effect.”

I laughed, a breathy sound. “And the sight of you carrying me off won’t ruin it?” I stood, knees wobbly, drained and invigorated, all at once. Along with all the other mage children, I had studied the art of storytelling, but had never practiced, not before an audience.

“She’s got a touch of the ham in her, doesn’t she?” Rupert said, tucking my right hand into the crook of his left arm.

“She’s been around you too long,” Audric said. “It’s rubbed off.”

“Just remember, dearie. There’s room for only one queen in Thorn’s Gems, and I am she. What’s this?” he asked, lifting an amulet hanging on my necklace.

I looked down. In work-hardened fingers, he held a poor-quality sapphire, crudely carved into a fat owl, an amulet I had purchased at a swap meet without knowing what it did. It came from the time of the wild-mages, from before the Mage War. And it was glowing. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

He could hear the soft pad of human-style boots on the stone of the passageway. They were early. His wings weren’t healed over. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Despair swamped him. How long? How long would penance last?

He pictured Daria in his mind: her dark hair and fine brown skin, long lean legs wrapped around him, her amulets flashing with wild-magic. Her flashing eyes so full of mischief. He could almost feel her fingertips as they caressed his face. However long it lasted, she would have been worth it. How does one ask forgiveness for a sin one doesn’t regret?

The cell door opened and a voice said, “Barak. Rise and shine. We got a randy one for you. She can smell you already.” They laughed. There were only three of them this time. And it hadn’t been long enough. Something was different. Something had changed. Shackles clinked. He kept his head buried in the crook of his arm, breathing deeply.

“Yeah. It’s your lucky day. And ours, if you continue being stupid about ’em.”

“A bonus, you wingless wonder.” A boot landed in the small of his back. A hand clicked a thick cuff around one wrist, while another captor wrenched back his other arm. “We made Forcas happy and so we get the next one, and only three of us to share. And when she—”

Barak, the fallen seraph once called Baraqyal, lashed out with both legs and the partially healed stub of a wing. All three tormentors crashed to the floor.

Chapter 8

I had thought my troubles were over when the gavel banged down the last time. I was wrong. When my two champards and I stepped through the oversized front doors onto the covered porch of the old church, the steps and the walk leading to Upper Street were lined with black-clad humans. Rupert and Audric tossed back their cloaks and drew weapons. The sound of steel on leather echoed down the silent street.

In two rows, facing one another, the town orthodox had re-created the gauntlet, a silent condemning jury, hating me, letting me know that though a judge had set me free, they had judged me guilty. Several elders and the most zealous of their followers, perhaps three hundred, lined my passageway. I counted three brown robes before I looked away.

“Theatrics would come in handy now,” Rupert said with tense humor. “We could cancan down the street.”

I grinned at that, and my rising fear dissipated. “Thanks,” I said, catching his eye.

“If you can walk on your own, a little extra weaponry and some hocus-pocus might be useful too,” Audric said.

“I’m not attacking humans,” I said softly. “Where’s a TV camera when you need one to hide behind?”

“No one has a gun out,” Rupert said. “No blades, no dynamite. Let’s brazen our way through it. Show ’em your clothes again, Thorn. Make eye contact. Let them know you know who they are.”

I looked at the first dozen people. I didn’t know a single one. Somehow, that lightened my heart. I folded my cloak back, exposing my neomage finery and freeing my arms but keeping my head covered. Like a queen walking to her beheading, I started down the steps, Rupert and Audric following. We reached the street before I recognized anyone, and it was the owner of the laundry I used. Arms crossed over her chest, she held my gaze, glaring. I’d be looking for a new place to wash my clothes. Sleet started again, a thin rain of ice that bounced off my cloak.

Behind me I heard the scrape of boot on stone. Faster than humans can see, I whirled and drew my sword. It was Elder Jasper and his wife, Polly. And their new child, who hadn’t been with them earlier. Polly sucked in a breath to scream. I lowered my sword.

His voice ringing into the street, the elder said, “Polly and I wondered if you had a healing amulet. She cut her finger opening a can last night. It’s paining her mightily.”

I looked back and forth between them, sword poised. A long moment passed. Polly, trembling, handed her baby to the elder and walked down the stairs. She held out her hand to me. A makeshift bandage was taped to her thumb. I stared at her extended hand; her human aura was blazing with fear and determination, a bright golden glow. She stared at my skin, and I realized I had released my attributes as my defenses went up. Slowly, so I wouldn’t startle her again, I sheathed my blade and took the bandaged hand in mine. To her credit, she didn’t flinch, though her trembling worsened. Her blue eyes fastened on me.

“I have a curative amulet at the shop,” I said. “It’ll speed healing and lessen the pain.”

“That would be a blessing,” Polly said. She gripped my hand, a simple human gesture that meant more to me than anything else she could do. I turned with her toward Thorn’s Gems. Together, hands clasped, we passed my champards and took the lead down to the ice-covered road.

“Are you scared?” she asked, voice pitched low.

“Out of my mind,” I said, seeing hate in the eyes of the farrier who shod my horse.

“Me too. But God the Victorious will protect us.”

Having never learned what reply was appropriate when confronted with a faith I was genetically unable to share, I remained silent as we moved through the throng of black-clad, self-appointed judges and left them behind. At the end of the line stood Jacey and her brood, Eli and his mother, and a dozen or so others, including Ken Schmidt. They fell into the void behind us, a human shield. I wondered if they thought of themselves in that way. When we reached the curve in Upper Street and left the old church behind, I leaned to Polly. “Is your thumb really cut?”

“I will confess the sin of lying at kirk this evening,” she said serenely.

“Thank you, Polly.” I didn’t know why she had helped me. We weren’t friends in any sense of the word, barely nodding acquaintances, but I wasn’t questioning her help.

Once at the shop, we entered while Rupert and Audric stood outside beneath lowering clouds, guarding for possible attack. I gave her a charm, one that might calm a restive baby. For her help, I’d have given her a charm for wealth and long life if there were such a thing. Waving away my thanks, she kissed my cheek, took her baby from the elder, and moved outside, down the street, leaving me alone.

From the back of the shop, a man emerged. I appraised him in the instant I pulled my sword and plucked a throwing blade. Hands up, palms out in the universal gesture of peace, he hesitated. Both cheeks wore brands, the left cross old and pale, the right still healing, perhaps only a few weeks old. He was dressed for the cold in layered, shabby coats and mismatched boots. Alone in the shop, I drew back the throwing blade.

“I’m unarmed,” he said quickly.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t gut you for breaking and entering.”

“I’m with the EIH,” he said. “And we want you to join with us against the seraphs.”

I had no idea at all what to say to that one, but I didn’t release the throwing blade, flipping and tucking it away instead. Silent, my sword in a low defensive position, I studied him, watching his hands. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty, his face weathered brown, creased deeply at the eyes and around his mouth. His Cherokee heritage showed plainly in the beak of his nose and black eyes, even without the braids lying on either shoulder, framing his long face. “You have one minute,” I said.

“Do you want to know the real reason why seraphs put your people in Enclaves? It wasn’t that silly fairy tale you recounted back there.” That ticked me off, but I raised my brows in a parody of polite manners. He lowered his palms a fraction and said, “It was because neomages can’t breed fertile offspring on humans, but you can with seraphs.”

“Forty seconds.” Everyone knew that human and seraph offspring, the second-unforeseen—half-breeds,
mules
—were indeed sterile, often with incompletely developed genitals, while the offspring of mages and seraphs, the kylen, were capable of reproduction, able to breed with humans or mages equally. He was saying nothing new.

His eyes shifted to the door as it opened, letting in a gust of air. Speaking fast, he said, “It’s because you’re genetically closer to seraphs than to humans.”

Audric and Rupert stepped into the shop. I could almost feel them maneuvering to my left and right, out of the way of my blades. “What’s this scum doing here?” Rupert asked.

“Chatting. Leaving,” the man said, hands still out, placating. “Name’s Joseph Barefoot. You want to talk, leave a white rag hanging at your back window. I’ll be notified. Think about what I said.” He eased away, backed down the small hallway, and disappeared from view. I heard him exit the shop by the back door.

Not looking at my friends, I sheathed my sword. Battle rage drained out in a rush. My legs and arms were heavy, tired, and I hadn’t even drawn blood. I rested a hand on a display, head hanging down. “What now?” I asked.

“Now we lock up the shop and mount a watch in case one of the more fervent zealots decides to break windows, toss firebombs, or paint slogans on the walls. Jacey’s sending Zeddy over to spend the night here, and her next two largest will keep watch in the barn.”

Humans. Putting themselves and their families at risk. For me. I wanted to be sick. “Fine.” I managed a smile at the picture they made, tall and muscular, swords at their hips. Audric’s cloak was the basic black leather worn by the second-unforeseen when they went to war, though no one at my trial had commented on it. Unless the reporter had noted the dobok and delved into his past, his secrets were still safe. Rupert’s new blue velvet had a trendy swath of lace at the throat. “You made great champards,” I said. “Very flashy. But—”

“If you think you’re taking off to keep us safe, don’t bother,” Rupert said, untying the cape and brandishing his new sword in its scabbard. “All for one and one for all, dearie.”

I had been about to say just that. Unexpected tears sprang into my eyes and I hiccupped, half sob, half laughter.

“Go lie down,” Audric said. “You’re dead on your feet. Oh—and the tense was incorrect.” When I looked my question at him he said, “We
make
great champards.”

A tear rolled down; I caught it on my wrist. As I turned back, I saw Eli Walker across the street. He was leaning against the wall outside Shamus Waldroup’s bakery, one knee bent, foot flat against the building, rifle cradled in his arms. He tipped his hat when he caught my eye. Eli worked as a tracker, sometimes for the kirk, sometimes for the Administration of the ArchSeraph. Neither liked me much. I wondered who he was working for today.

Thadd walked by Eli, talking to Jacey, the cop animated, his body language angry, Jacey calm, her red clothes a beacon in the gray light. Eli’s gaze followed them, speculative. I remembered that neither Thaddeus Bartholomew nor the assey Durbarge had been in the meeting house. I’d have smelled Thadd. Durbarge, as an Administration of the ArchSeraph Investigator, would have been forced to stand beside me on the dais, his eye patch drawing frightened looks. I was a legally licensed mage, accused in a court of law. Part of an assey’s job description was protecting mages in the human population, and he hadn’t been there. Because he had been kept away as part of the ploy by Culpepper’s brigade and the orthodox? Or because he was colluding with them?

Farther down the street, the reporter who had been at the trial was doing interviews, currently talking to a member of the orthodox, an elderly man with a full beard and a deer-hide hat that came down over his ears. She was getting an earful, and I imagined most of it was mage hate. The reporter had perfect tanned skin, chin-length blond hair that curled at the tips, and clothes that came out of designer shops in Atlanta. As if she felt me watching her, she looked up and met my eyes. Immediately, she ditched the man and raced toward the shop.

Not wanting to listen to her pitch, I turned and climbed the steps, my booted feet heavy and cold. Behind me, I heard the bells over the door jingle and Rupert intercept her. Romona’s tone wasn’t happy, and I caught the words, “the Trine,” and “ice cap,” and “Darkness.” It wasn’t good, if the press had put that much together, but I still didn’t go back down.

At the top of the stairs I stopped. The EIH provocateur had entered the shop, and was watching my home and me.
It’s because you’re genetically closer to seraphs than to humans.
It was an obvious deduction, yet one I had never made. So far as I knew, no one had made it. And I had no idea what it might mean. Speculating, I went in.

My loft was one huge open area, once the hayloft of the two-hundred-plus-year-old former livery that housed Thorn’s Gems. The walls were three feet thick, four in some places, made of old brick, some of which I had plastered and painted rich greens and blues. Complementary window hangings were teal and sea green tapestries, to match colors from my childhood and the stained-glass window at the back of the loft where hay bales once were inserted. Wood floors were covered with rugs except in the kitchen and bath areas, where I had laid teal tiles. The furniture was dun and tan and soft, soothing colors, clustered around the freestanding natural gas fireplaces. There were no closets, and the armoires still hung open, clothes hanging out. The place looked like it was owned by a slob.

I tossed my cloak over the coatrack near the door and untied my boots, leaving them piled near the door so the ice that had crusted on the soles could melt and drain. I put away the cuffs, earrings, and rings. Hanging up the mageskirt, I thumped a bell for a last little jingle. The shirt was harder to get off than it had been to put on, but I finally got it unlaced and hung on a hanger. For some reason I didn’t want to look at too closely, I didn’t put them back out of sight, hooking the hangers over an armoire door instead. The clothes looked exotic and foreign in the human apartment. Cold, I pulled on leggings, slippers, and a fuzzy turtlenecked sweater, and turned up the fire to warm the apartment, my necklace around my neck.

In a sudden need to restore order to my life, I made the bed with ruby red silk sheets, fluffed the teal comforter smooth, and arranged lavender, ruby, and turquoise pillows. The emerald bed skirt and an inch of ruby sheets were contrasting jewel tones. When the bed was made, I dusted, swept, vacuumed, and cleaned the bath, working up a sweat. As I worked, lazily turning fans overhead pushed heated air back to the floor from the rafters.

I checked my blades to see if they needed attention. Constant wet was a prelude to rust, but I had been careful to keep them oiled and so far I’d been lucky. In mountainous areas, sword blades needed oil once every three months, and I was weeks away from that timeline, but two blades looked dull, so I wiped away the old oil with a soft rag and sprinkled the blades with talcum powder to remove the excess oil. Lastly, I wiped each clean and applied a coating of light oil before laying them aside.