Soul Weaver (11 page)

“Blame me all you want, brother.” He snorted. “You’re his idol. He might take punches like his father, but the martyr act he pulls is one hundred percent classic Uncle Nate.”

Before Nathaniel grabbed for Saul a second time, the chamber door swung open on Delphi’s return. He brushed a strand of his ebony hair from his face, marring the pale skin of his temple with a crimson smear.

Nathaniel prayed the blood was seraphim.

The weight of Delphi’s stare swung between Nathaniel and Saul. Their chests heaved and foreheads sweated. Saul had struck a defensive pose while Nathaniel let the wall support him. Their connections to Bran were well known, as were their heated arguments on his behalf.

Delphi dismissed Saul with a soft rebuke. “Unfortunately, the child often pays for the sins of his father.” His dark eyes focused on Nathaniel. “The Nephilim is in good hands.”

Nathaniel bowed his head in silent thanks while Delphi stared at him with the intensity of someone eyeing a bug. As if undecided whether crushing it was worth the effort. “I expect your disposition much improved when you return next month.”

Without waiting for a reply, he returned to his desk, righted the bottle of spilled ink, and blotted the excess with a handkerchief from his pocket. Pen and ink in hand, he said, “You may begin.” His gaze touched on every harvester present. “I trust the rest of your night will be uneventful.”

The benign words were a threat, and the best course of action was to offer silent agreement, which every man in the room did.

Tension from Delphi’s departure thickened the air. Nathaniel ignored the quiet and walked toward the center of the room. Smoothing a hand across the frame of his loom, he allowed himself a smile. The white ash wood shone. Its finish preserved all this time by his gentle care.

The loom resembled those used by humans for making fabric. His performed an identical task, but there the similarities ended. Rather than spun wool, his yarn came from a rarer source.

“Who’s first?” Any other time, the harvesters would have flocked to him. Now they divided their attention between his face and the shears in his hand. “Is no one here in need of mending?”

For a full minute, no one moved.

“I’ll go first.” With a derisive snort, Reuel shoved his way forward. “I remember having to draw straws last month and tonight we’re taking volunteers?”

A few of the others chuckled with unease.

“I am oldest, you know.” Reuel puffed out his chest. “I deserve a few perks.”

“You know what they say, ‘age before beauty,’ ” Saul said dryly.

Reuel flipped him off, which earned a round of heartier laughter.

Dropping to his knees before Nathaniel, Reuel spread his wings wide. “I don’t envy the judge of that contest. This lot has some of the damn ugliest mugs I’ve ever seen.”

Nathaniel pressed a hand between Reuel’s shoulder blades. “Hold still.” He used his shears to snip away the tattered remnants of soul cloth stretched over Reuel’s wings. By the time he had finished, the heavy bones stretched out like skeletal fingers into the room.

Satisfied the frame was cleaned, Nathaniel passed over the detritus to a waiting harvester, one of the newer arrivals, for disposal. The man blanched as the strips wriggled in his arms.

It was easy to spot the newest faces added to their rank. Their white wings turned black within a few hours. Then, even those began to molt. Before long, the skin melted away, leaving dense muscle tissue twined around bone.

It was as much a statement as a punishment. It said these men were no longer of the light, and any who dared break the rules risked the same set of consequences.

If anyone had asked if Nathaniel mourned the loss of his wings, he would have said no. Although the agony of his exchange with Delphi still radiated through his back, he’d rather have the shears than the grisly reminder of what he no longer had fused to his spine.

His fingers worked the familiar ties at his hip and freed his soul bag. He plunged his hand into the blistering pit to scour for a candidate and landed on an oily patch, which he ripped free of the portal. The black expanse slithered up his wrist, flaying his skin with its scalding temperature as it sought freedom. His lungs filled with the stench of burned flesh and sulfur.

Soul in hand, he sat at an ancient spinning wheel, the mate to his loom, and pulled fibers from the dark mass with practiced ease. Once he tied a fresh leader and threaded the orifice, he spun the wheel clockwise then treadled until the twist came up the leader and grabbed the fibers in his hand. He pinched and guided the wound length until he filled a bobbin with glistening black yarn.

Seating himself at his loom, he started his task anew. Soul cloth took several hours to weave, and his line of customers circled the room.

Seasoned harvesters settled in for the long wait, prepared to amuse themselves. They drew straws, made bets, and wagered for the next spot in line, knowing if they were among the first, they could earn a few hours of freedom from their duties as the others waited their turn.

Harvesters learned quickly that time moved slower in Dis. Twelve hours topside equaled seven days here. Though mending every set of wings present would take the better part of a week, at the end of that time, Nathaniel would go home to his own bed and wake to the morning after he arrived in Dis.

Delphi thought by forcing the harvesters into fellowship, confining them here, they would embrace the values most had disavowed and devote those long days to contemplation.

He was wrong.

If anything, the fallen angels resented their new positions as harvesters. They had gone from guarding gentle spirits in paradise to ripping corrupt ones from their mortal hosts on Earth. Their punishment was gruesome, and not all who fell could handle the job.

Some fell even farther, and they were imprisoned in the very pits they’d helped fill.

Nathaniel adjusted his position, then leaned forward and scanned the woven fabric for dangerous imperfections. His loom glowed with muted light, holding the writhing yarn immobile until he finished his task.

When he had enough cloth to reupholster Reuel’s massive wings, he fit the length of fabric to the bony limbs and pulled the copper spool and hooked needle from his pocket. He stitched for several hours before tying his knot and signaling Reuel to rise.

“Ah.” Reuel thrust his wings downward. “That is much better.” His feet cleared several inches above the floor before he lighted. “Well done, Weaver, as always.” They clasped forearms; then he left with another slice of his broad wings through the air.

Nathaniel straightened while the muscles in his back protested the long hours spent hunched over his workstation and Reuel.

“Ready for round two?” Saul asked as he settled at Nathaniel’s feet.

“Shouldn’t you let some of the younger ones go first?” They were the most annoying. Hopping from foot to foot, flittering their wings like butterflies caught in a net. “They’re more impatient than the ancients.”

“So am I.” Saul twisted to face him. “Hasn’t it occurred to you the only ‘safe hands’ in Dis are attached to seraphim arms?”

He shredded the soul cloth still in his hands. “We don’t know for certain where Delphi sent Bran.” One of two places, but he could only guess which. Dis was unsafe for Nephilim, but Delphi often underestimated his kind’s hatred for half-breeds. Whether it was done on purpose or in an attempt to force an accord was anyone’s guess. “Do you think he’s with the Order?”

Bran had founded the Order of the Nephilim as a safe haven for his kind. Since they had a small medical staff at their compound, it would be the best choice for his care.

“I can’t be sure.” Saul glanced toward the door. “Delphi could have kept him here, in the seraph’s quarters. Do you really want to chance that?”

Seven days at the mercy of the twins and others like them. Nathaniel couldn’t risk it. “Turn around.” He rested a hand below Saul’s shoulder. “Hold still.”

For once, his brother did as he was told.

Chapter Ten

Saul strolled through the double doors and stepped out into the hallway that led to Delphi’s quarters. Arestes and Trates kept rooms to either side of his, and if Saul had to guess, they would have had Bran brought to another seraph’s quarters. It wouldn’t do for Delphi to hear them play.

With a sigh, Saul picked up his pace. If the boy was hurt—well, hurt worse—Nathaniel would blame him and Saul wasn’t ready to lose his brother’s goodwill yet. Not when he’d be trailing him for the next few weeks. Better to deliver Bran to his home and let the Nephilim handle him.

Saul strained his ears but heard nothing. His foot hit and slid on his next step. Streaks shone dull across the glossy black marble floor. He knelt and let his fingers trace the outline of a boot.

They came away red-brown. Old blood. Dried blood.
Bran
.

Following the smears to a room at the far end of the hall, Saul pressed an ear to the door.

“… won’t last the week…”

“… father doesn’t care where you are…”

“… Weaver can’t save you, mongrel…”

Pressing his forehead to the door, Saul dismissed the odd tightness in his chest. He exhaled, eyed the door, then kicked it in. Wood splintered. The door hung from its hinges. Six seraphs jumped to their feet and faced him, scowls plastered on their faces. The tallest pair approached.

“What are you doing here, Saul?” they asked as one.

“Is twin-speak something all seraphs are taught at creation?” They cast him a confused look. Saul sighed. “Never mind. I came for my… for the Nephilim. I’m here on the Weaver’s orders.”

“Not as his father?” another seraph asked from the corner.

Ignoring the question, Saul entered the room. Bran was easy to spot. He was sprawled across a low cot. One of his legs was… wrong. His face was smashed and blood concealed his features.

The ball of rage in Saul’s gut ignited. “Is he alive?”

“What do you care?” that same seraph asked.

If Bran died, Nathaniel would snap. The shears would be lost, the key to the gates of Heaven would be ripped from Saul’s fingers, and he would lose his best chance to reclaim Mairi’s soul.

“I’m taking him to the Order’s compound.” Saul shoved through the seraphs to reach Bran.

“He was given into our care—” the tallest pair said.

Saul spun on his heel. Except for their differences in height, these seraphs were all identical. All had lank black hair and dull black eyes. Each had six sooty wings attached along their spines.

He was outnumbered. His palm itched until he fisted his blade. “If I called Delphi in here, I wonder what he’d think of Bran’s condition. Is this how he left the boy? Perhaps I should go—”

“Take him.” Agitated wings ruffled as the tallest pair cleared a path for Saul.

“That’s what I figured,” he muttered. Turning his attention to Bran, Saul was at a loss.

“Do you need help?” he heard from over his shoulder.

“No.” Saul folded Bran’s arms across his stomach and adjusted him on the cot so he could get a grip on him. Bran’s chest rose and fell with wet gurgles. The prospect of holding his son for the first time since infancy made Saul’s palms sweaty. When Bran’s eyes cracked open and met his, he smiled. Or he tried to. Part of his mouth was frozen, his lips slack. Drool ran down his chin.

“Father.” Bran’s laughter brought blood to his lips. “Now I know… I’m dead.”

Biting back his retort, Saul used his dagger to slash a rift, then grunted with the effort it took to lift Bran into his arms. He stumbled through the portal into an alley behind the Order’s central compound. The center was shielded against portals and teleportation, so visitors had to enter the front door. Saul supposed it had something to do with the number of women and children inside.

The Order was situated on miles of land outside the city of Aurora, in Cloud County, Kansas.

He snorted as he always did and wondered if his brother or his son had picked the location.

It fit with their senses of humor.

Staggering under Bran’s weight, Saul’s knees gave and they hit the asphalt. For a minute, he sat there with Bran across his lap. Beneath the blood and swelling, Saul searched for a resemblance to Mairi. He found none. Bran looked like him, like Nathaniel. Perhaps Saul might have loved his son if he had Mairi’s wide eyes or her sloped nose, her thin lips or sharp chin. But he doubted it.

Mairi’s love for Bran had killed her. If she hadn’t—He shut down that line of thought before he did something foolish, like snap Bran’s neck and dump him on the doorstep. That Mairi loved their son more than she wanted to stay with Saul had shattered him. She had been his everything.

Saul shut his eyes, inhaled cool night air, and exhaled. He still had hope, and he clung to it.

Dumping Bran from his lap onto the pavement, Saul knelt over his son.

How many times had he stood over Bran’s bed when he was a child and considered snuffing out that tender life? The longer he stared at that battered face, the louder the voice in the back of his mind whispered no one would know if their twisted relationship ended here, tonight. Pressure on Bran’s throat where his windpipe was already crushed would quench Saul’s thirst for justice.

He fit his hands around Bran’s throat, paused. Nathaniel would hunt him down and gut him for this. If Nathaniel snapped, would he withdraw as Saul had suspected? Or could he be lured to Azrael’s cause because he’d lost the person he loved most? Bran’s loss would shatter Nathaniel.

Saul and Azrael could reform him while he was lost to his grief.

Slight pressure caused Bran to stir, his chest to rattle. That same odd pressure built behind Saul’s breastbone until he scrambled backward, panting. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. It was as if he were glued in place by the sight of Bran, by the knowledge of what he’d almost done.

Heaven help him. His stomach rebelled. He’d almost killed his last living link to Mairi.

“Hey, who’s out there?” a husky feminine voice called.

“It’s Saul.” A flashlight shone in his eyes, blinded him. “There was an accident…”