We Will All Go Down Together (41 page)

“You son of a—”

“Blandina!”

A pause ensued, during which they both struggled to calm themselves. ’Til, eventually, Mother Eulalia continued: “As you probably know, we found one of the missing pages from our
Codex
earlier tonight—on the body of a certain Professeur Auguste Therrien-Poirier, local dealer in antiquities, who seems to have died very recently under rather obscure circumstances.”

“Mmm, wow. Weird. His first name was
Auguste
?”

“Don’t you even want to know who killed him?” Blandina demanded.

“Okay, who?”

“The Templars, we believe. Our Anchoress glimpsed one of their inner circle entering Toronto during morning Meditation, so we were already on the lookout. Which is why we exorcized the area, laying down salt and sacrament in such a way as might make it somewhat difficult for his murderers to return.”

“I hope you can get the blood off your manuscript,” Mac offered. “Parchment’s pretty porous, as I recall.”

“Oh, our restoration facilities remain exemplary. More important, however, is the fact that, while today’s work means the Templars cannot lay their Cornerstone in Toronto anytime soon, this welcome recovery proves the rest of the
Codex
must still be nearby.” Eulalia folded her hands in her lap, tilting her head, the picture of academic curiosity. “I don’t suppose you’d have any suggestions on how to tailor our search efforts, though—would you, Maccabee?”

“Um, I guess the right response here might be: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about?’”

Blandina snorted. “Mother, this is foolish. I could kill him now, if you gave the order.”

“Could you? I don’t think any of us are perfectly sure of that, dear. But perhaps
you
could set about finding the rest of the manuscript for us, Mister Roke, bit by bit. We’d certainly make it worth your while.”

“The warrior nun protection racket installment plan?”

“Something of the sort. You’ve relatively little to fear from us, after all.”

“Compared to who?”

“The rest of your family, of course.”

Back at the Saul of Tarsus, Mac made his goodbyes—told them he was moving out the next morning, so they were free to re-assign his room. And later that night, he woke to blackness, just like old times: somebody standing over him, head cocked, waiting for him to resurface from dream’s muddy wallow. But the featureless black silhouette’s power-stink tasted of ash and vinegar, not the rotten-fruit-and-mould flavour of the
brugh
. Myrrh, that classic seasonal bitter tomb-perfume, with just a touch of frankincense larded in, on top—it was a smell Mac’d walked either in front of, behind, or shook a censer-full of back and forth almost every day for half of his life . . . twice on Saturday, three times on Sundays, all day on Christmas, Easter, and Good Friday, too.

(
Cordellion.
)

Mac sat up, wrung the sleep from his eyes, game-face on. Saying, as he did—“Tell you this much . . . I’m getting
really
sick of people coming at me through walls. Why are you here,
Chevalier
?”

“You interest me, M. Roke.”

“Oh, joy.”

“I know what it is, to be betrayed by God.”

“Not sure it was God betrayed
me
, exactly.”

“You interest me further.”

And maybe this
was
just another nightmare, one more in a million. That would explain why it was so easy to tell this
thing
what he’d never before said aloud, even to himself.

“Something came in, one night,” Mac began, slowly. “At the Cathedral, where I used to—work, sleep, live. Everything. And even the few people who could tell it was there, they thought it was an angel. But. . . .”

“. . . it was not,” the Templar’s voice finished for him, quiet. Like any good confessor.

Around him, the dark pressed in closer, ’til Mac felt it in his very throat. All his bed lacked was a screen between him and Cordellion to render the illusion perfect.

“I don’t know
what
it is,” he said, finally. “I don’t know if
it
knows. . . .”

“Go on.”

“But . . . they let it stay. To come and go as it pleased—as it pleases. And they never did anything, because they never knew any better. Because nobody in there could tell the difference.”

“Ah.” A studied, musing beat. “Well, you can’t be too hard on them for that,
M’sieu
; they just don’t have our advantages, do they?
They
have to take everything on
faith
.”

Mac nodded, unseen, even by himself. And then—

—the sun was up, the light back on, the room empty of everything but the expected. Mac reached for his coat, heard Le Prof’s keys ring a profane sort of Matins, and thought:
Well, there we go—you wanted a new life, didn’t you?

God in His heaven, all right with the world; business as usual, for Templars and Fae alike. Those pesky shadows gone at last, from almost everywhere but inside him.

The sign on the door said Curia opened at 6:00
A.M.
, and Mac saw no reason to mess with that. But at 6:04 on the first day, a girl with straight black hair walked in, so slight her head barely came up to his armpit. She might have been anywhere between a hard-lived sixteen and a creepily dewy thirty (her actual age later turned out to be twenty-eight) and had slanted eyes of no particular colour (brown . . . ish, maybe, though already beginning to shade towards yellow, from some angles). She also smelled of incense and stank of sulphur in equal measure, though not so much anyone other than him might’ve noticed.

“I heard you sell grimoires, here,” she said, without preamble.

“Sure. Buy them, too.”

“Good.” She shrugged off her backpack, laid it down on the counter. “You happen to have a copy of the
Cle Kushielle Ultime
, I might’ve run across something I could maybe swap you for it. Guy I bought it from said it was the Yezidic Gospel, but he couldn’t even tell Beelzebub’s sigil from Beli-ya’al’s, so . . . go on and take a gander, see what
you
think.” Adding, with a mocking little curl of smile: “You
do
read angel, right?”

“Some. But wouldn’t this be devil?”

“Same thing, man. Exact . . . same . . . thing.”

Mac nodded slightly, squinting down at what she was already starting to unravel—with a fair amount of care, since it looked like it might be made from shark’s skin. And suddenly knowing, as he did, that he’d probably say just about anything to keep her there for the next hour or so, let alone possibly coming back on a regular basis.

“Maccabee Roke,” he offered; “Judy Kiss,” she shot back, flashing him her health card. According to it,
Kiss
apparently rhymed with
quiche
, which took all the fun out of the joke, right there.

Looking closer, her “scroll” seemed more like three different documents stitched together at the top and rolled tight, then tied. At least four different magical languages had been used, from straight witch-code like Crossing the River to occasional scattered lines in the Penemue Dialectic, a seldom-used Grigorim variant of angelic script.

“Where’d you get this, Judy?” he asked, spreading one hand gingerly over the deceptively smooth surface. He felt words of power blossom under his fingertips as he did, etched in poison, their very letters faintly raised, faintly toxic.

“Does it matter?”

“Not to me. Wouldn’t happen to know if that’s an original or a copy, though, would you? And . . . if there’s more?”

She shook her head. “Not that I saw. So: take it or leave it?”

He could already see there was something wrong with her, of course. Given his history, there’d pretty much have to be.

Thirty-eight years old, and never kissed a girl,
he thought, ruefully. Then:
Man. Truly pathetic.

“Let me just check my stock-book,” Mac said, eyes still on the manuscript—hoping against hope that she was looking down at him, but not quite daring to glance back up. Not just yet.

And turned on the cash register.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe,
according to John the Apostle—those happy few who never look for tangible proof of their supernatural assumptions. Who never, like Doubting Thomas, demand to stick their hand in the Risen Christ’s side.

But the Ordo Sororum Perpetualam’s anchoresses spend their retirement in meditation on a very different version of that phrase:
Blessed are those,
they say,
whether they believe or not, who do not
have
to see.

This year’s Novice Number Thirty-Three—formerly yet another Vicky, if Sister Blandina recalled her application correctly—had decided to take the battle-name of Cecilia, which Blandina thought pretty but inadequate, especially to a martial order.

“Cecilia
was
a martyr, dear,” Mother Eulalia reminded her. “And martyrdom is all our charter requires in a name-saint. But I suppose one might consider there to be differing degrees of martyrdom.”

“Catherine’s a good name,” was all Blandina replied, not looking up from her present duty. Yet feeling Mother Eulalia’s single shrewd eye on the nape of her neck, assessingly, nevertheless.

“Of Alexandria? We have a few too many fireworks to deal with around here as it is, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Mother.”

But:
Alexandrine Catherine broke the Wheel, overthrew what pagans thought was the natural order. She made her tormentors’ gods look foolish, confirming her God—our God—over all. St. Cecilia . . . she’s the reason Baptists think angels have harps.

Rarely any point to debating with Mother Eulalia, however, even when she was feeling charitable enough to allow the impertinence. “Cecilia” had made her choice and would now have upwards of two years to live with it—’til she either paid out her novitiate and made her final vows, thought better, or had those decisions taken from her, decisively. The Ordo was a tour of duty from which few returned, unscathed or otherwise.

We kill monsters or die trying,
Blandina remembered explaining once, to a Poor Clare who claimed to be interested in what it was, exactly, that the Perpetuals did. Only for the other to blurt, in return:
But . . . what would be the point?

Fewer monsters, sister.

(Only that.)

A ridiculous conversation, by definition. Either the Ordo’s purpose actually was what it said on the box, or it wasn’t; their very role as killers of supernatural things would in itself seem to be, by simple logic, “proof” of the idea that supernatural things which merited killing existed. But to be constantly forced through explaining it, and by other
religieuses
. . . 
ah,
chah,
her Mémé would have said.
Every fool a king in him own house.

I mean, either you’re right in your beliefs, or I am. Or we’re both wrong, of course—at which point, what are
either
of us even doing here?

Take off your habit and go home, if that’s how you feel about it. Get yourself a boyfriend.

When Blandina fell into moods like these, which was more often than it should be, Mother Eulalia sometimes undertook to tell her improving stories or gave her extra duty. Today, however, she simply shrugged and said: “You need exercise, dear—a breath of fresh air, that’s what strikes me. Have you spoken with Maccabee Roke, lately?”

“’Course not,” Blandina snapped. Then: “No, Mother. Did you think it prudent?”

“Oh, knowing what young Mister Roke is up to is always prudent. He’s sent word to the Bishop about seeing something.”

“He ‘sees something’ every day of his life.”

“I believe he meant of interest. To us.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Well, then.” Throwing back over her shoulder, as she moved towards the door: “And take an apprentice with you, when you go—someone who hasn’t met him yet.”

“Sister Cecilia?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, dear.”

Here’s how it all started: God tore pieces off itself to make angels—the Elohim, or Heavenly Host—who were too much the same, yet too different. Who served, and did not question; who had flame, but no true vitality. No . . . spark.

Then God thought smaller, and thus our troubles began.

Human beings were made, given individual personality, a soul each, free will enough to choose wrongly, and—once sin entered the picture—the knowledge of their own mortality, a poisoned gift, thankfully denied almost every other mammal (save for whales, grey parrots, a few varieties of ape, and elephants). Some angels later rebelled against the concept, only to find themselves cast down—but long before that, my ancestors did the opposite: fell deeply in love with the fragile creatures our Creator had assigned to their care, both figuratively and literally.

Their name was Grigorim, the famous Watcher Angels, of whom Enoch has so much to say in his Apocrypha. And
our
name is Nephilim, those angels’ progeny—seed of betrayal, rape-born earth-giants, mighty men and women of reknown . . . 

Not that we are any of us quite
so
massive these days, by comparison. Not since hormones and nutrition have rendered Goliath the rule, David the exception, throughout this world’s Westernmost portions.

Blandina and Cecilia left the Connaught Trust in street drag, with their scarves—so easily mistaken for hijab, these post-Osama days—pulled down into neat little cravats, and only the lack of make-up to set them apart from any other two unfashionable young ladies tricked out in sensible black shoes with steel toes and thick soles, sharp-creased navy blue security guard slacks, and white polo-neck uniform shirts bought by the gross from an outlet in Scarborough. Hair either long enough to put back in a braid, yet short enough not to provide much of a hand-hold (Cecilia), or close-cut as the diocese would allow and nappy from ten years’ worth of not being relaxed every other week, the way God always intended (Blandina). Plus nothing personal, nothing identifiable, just in case: no jewellery beyond the tiny silver cross-pins at their lapels or the plain silver wedding ring Blandina wore, signifying her commitment to that principality her Mémé called
King Christ Jesus
.

A sap in her right-hand pocket, full of anchoress-blessed sand. A set of cold iron knuckles in her left, similarly blessed, incised with Crusader crosses. That, and she could Wing Ch’un the crap out of whatever came her way, with a side order of Krav Maga, and a little bit of Brazilian Capoeira for back-up. Blandina wasn’t sure what sort of hand-to-hand practice Cecilia had under her belt, if any; hadn’t seen her at any of
her
prayer sessions thus far, that was for sure. But if Mother Eulalia was letting her out of the Connaught Trust at all, she must be able to at least halfway defend herself unarmed. . . .

Or maybe I’m supposed to do that
for
her, while she takes notes. As a learning exercise.

They passed through the stacks and out onto the Legacy Library’s floor, a hushed, expensively outfitted reading room full of students and clergy. Most had ancient-looking ecclesiastical books out on their carrels, reading in rapt silence while their Trust-issued pencils scratched diligently away. The wall they passed while crossing to the final door supported a huge dark Renaissance scene: Jacob vs. God’s messenger at Jabbok, Sunday Sunday Sunday.

“‘Jacob wrestled the angel, and the angel was overcome,’” Blandina quoted out the side of her mouth, keeping her voice low. “True or false, sister?”

Cecilia, still craning her neck to look Jacob in the eye, gave a guilty sort of jump. “Um . . . true?”

“’Cause the Bible says so?” Blandina shrugged. “Scripture also claims, at the Battle of Jericho, Joshua made the sun and moon stand still in the sky—but physics says, if that ever happened, gravity would fail, and we’d all fly off into outer space. Who’s right?”

They stepped through into the hallway, letting the weighted door fall softly shut behind while their steps rang sharp on the tile a good ten times before Cecilia finally found her answer. “That’s . . . a very hard question,” she said, at last.

“No it’s not.”

Down the hallway’s end, a new set of doors required both palm-scan and computerized lock-code. Blandina put hers in by feel, waiting while Cecilia struggled to recall whichever dead nun’s she’d been assigned. Beyond, the Trust’s outermost lobby was cool, functional, modern; if she didn’t know better, Blandina might’ve suspected today’s greeter of wearing lip-gloss. Her desk bore the Ordo’s insignia and motto, thin gold letters set in dark wood:
In Nomine Perpetua in Perpetuam.

“Then how’s this,” Blandina said, tracing the letters. “Night before her martyrdom, Eusebius says the Blessed Perpetua dreamt she wrestled Satan in the form of a black man, and threw him. You think
that
happened?”

“I don’t know what you want me to—” As Blandina narrowed her eyes, Cecilia sighed. “Okay. Do I think it’s true she threw him? Or that she dreamed it?”

They locked gazes a moment longer, the novice obviously braced for some anti-heretical eruption; Blandina knew she had a reputation, especially amongst the unblooded. But all she gave back was a smile, small yet genuine. “Good one,” she allowed.

And now they were almost out in the world. Blandina stopped on the threshold, asking Cecilia—“Next-to-last question: You and me fought
ghul
last night. True or false?”

“Well . . . I
was
there.”

“But if you told anybody else, would they believe you?”

“. . . probably not.”

“So riddle me this. Why do
we
believe, at all, when God and the Church tell us something we know could never happen did—just because we see things everyone else thinks don’t exist every day, every night, and kill them? Or is it something more?”

Again, Cecilia hesitated—a flinch, almost. Somebody was going to have to break her of that habit, and Blandina suspected she’d been handed the job. “I, I’m just thinking . . . I mean. . . .”

“It’s not rocket science, sister. We take it on faith, because we have to. By definition.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Of course.

You couldn’t fault the girl for knowing nothing, Blandina supposed. She’d known nothing herself, once upon a time.

“What’s he like, Mac Roke?” Cecilia asked.

“You’ll find him charming, probably,” Blandina replied, without turning. “Most do.”

“Because he’ll be putting a charm on me?” Blandina threw her a look. “He’s partly Fae, that’s what I’d heard; part Fae and part warlock, and I don’t even know what that is. Is there a word for that, specifically?”

“Not that I know of.”

She thought of Mac Roke, bent to his former customary task, updating the
Bestiarium Ad Noctem
with notes from the Ordo’s latest interrogations; had he found family members’ names in there, now and again? But then, as she recalled, that implication was always a sore spot.
We don’t all
know
each other, B,
he’d tell her.
There’s no organized “monster community” with a party line, a hidden agenda, or what-have-you. Jesus, how speciesist can you get?

“Some Fae can charm, yes,” Blandina told Cecilia, “just like there’s spells which bend affection. Our vows disrupt them, mostly. But. . . .” Forcing herself to be honest, she had to admit: “. . . I’ve never known Roke to use glamer, no, not on us. Or me.”

“So if I feel—
something
happening, then—”

You won’t,
Blandina wanted to snap. Instead, she doled out the glare once more, keeping things short and sharp—easy to remember yet hard to forget, especially under pressure. Like any standing order.

“Pray,” she advised, curtly. And turned, moving down, onto the St. George subway station steps.

Of the rest, the Goetim, Adversary-allied, found themselves imprisoned along with him in Hell’s multifoliated holding-cell—able to escape every now and then through the usual channels (possession, pacts or deals, the debatable appeal of doing some magician’s beck and call), but always eventually returned to serve out the rest of their sentence. The Maskim or Terrible Seven, meanwhile, chose no side but their own and continue even now to do as they please in vain pursuit of free will, which their very nature renders an impossibility.

But my ancestors were set to wandering, cast out on every side, surrounded by a movable cage/feast/retinue of children—only comfortable in our presence, yet resentful of our existence, palpable proof of their own endless appetite-slavery, the injury they are unable to keep themselves from offering the One who still loves them most. He who would gladly grant them salvation, even now, if only they could keep from making more of us.

(And what might He offer we Nephilim, were our parents to relent at last? This I do not know, for I have never heard His voice, at all. I am not enough of one thing for that. Half of me is human, just like everybody else—made from meat and hunger and sin, driven by blood, tormented by possibility. But the other—

The other half is like every angel, good, bad, or indifferent. And it is made from God.)

What Maccabee Roke looked like, these days, was the same man he’d always seemed: rugged, edge-of-handsome, with too-dark hair, and abnormally bright blue eyes. He was leaned up against the till of that ridiculous shop of his—“Curia: Odd Objects Appraised and Traded”—studying a ledger with his reading glasses on, wearing the Port Dalhousie Peregrines football team sweatshirt Blandina vaguely recalled from their ill-advised early-morning jogging sessions.

“Roke,” she said from the doorway. And: “Hey, B,” he replied, not bothering to look up. “Guess you got my message.”

“Mother Eulalia did.”

“Well, she obviously knew who I really meant it for.” Here, he finally turned, eyebrows lifting as he took in Cecilia. “
This
one’s new, though.”

“A novice. I’m training her.”

“Sounds fun. Am I Exhibit Number One?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Okay, whatever. You actually want to see what I found, or are we just going to stand here flirting?”