The Secret (42 page)

THE whole Library stared at Vasu for silent seconds before the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs cried out and threw silver daggers at the angel.

Vasu simply disappeared and reappeared, now hanging on the tallest organ pipe. “That’s not going to work,” he said. “But do keep trying if you like.”

Scribes across the gallery began leaping to the ground, some rushing toward the balcony, others running toward the singers’ gallery where Irina had begun to chant over Vasu’s laughter. Ava felt the terror in the air.

“What do we do?” she shouted at Sari while trying to shield Kyra from the wave of panic taking over the room.

“I don’t know!” Sari looked across the Library, probably searching for Damien, but Ava had just looked and neither Malachi nor Damien were anywhere to be found.

“I think we need to—”

“Stop.”

A single word froze the crowd, the room, and everything in it. Knives hung suspended in the afternoon sun. Papers rested in midair. Two scribes froze, their leap from the gallery halted by a single command from the one being Ava had never expected to see in the heart of the Irin Council chambers.

Jaron stood before the crowd, not hovering over them as Vasu did, but standing among them, a creature of such frightening glory that Ava heard some begin to weep. He made no attempt to veil himself. He had become giant. A creature of majesty and power, terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

“I am Jaron,” he said, and though his voice was quiet, it filled every corner of the Library. “You will cease.”

Silver daggers frozen in the air dropped to the ground. Papers fell, as did the scribes. But though Ava saw them moving, the violence had halted.

In the space of a heartbeat, another angel appeared. If Jaron’s harsh features reminded Ava of a bird of prey, this being was a wolf. Silver-black hair hung thick around his face, and though his eyes were a glowing gold, his face reminded Ava of a winter lake. Calm and frozen.
 

Kyra let out a breath. “Father.”

So this was Barak. He angled his head up to the singers’ gallery. Kyra stepped forward, and Barak held up his hand.
 

But it wasn’t only Barak who spoke.
 

With one voice, the two angels said, “Daughter, come.”

It wasn’t even a question. Jaron spoke, and Ava moved toward him. She and Kyra walked toward the top of the stairs, as the Irina around them whispered furiously and parted the crowd.

“No!” Sari shouted, trying to grab both of their arms.

“He lied,” Ava whispered. Jaron had told her he couldn’t command her, but she couldn’t stop. She kept walking while Kyra wept, and Ava realized for the first time what the compulsion of the Grigori felt like.

Such exquisite torture.

Because nothing in this world, not the love of her mate or the strength of her will, could stop Ava from following Kyra down the stairs. Part of her didn’t want to, but the other part wanted nothing else. Her eyes locked with Jaron’s, and he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She would do anything for him.
 

“No,” Jaron said. “You will not.”

She couldn’t turn her head to look at Kyra, but she could hear the
kareshta
weeping, even as Barak made soothing noises to his child.

“I’m sorry,” Kyra kept saying. “Forgive me, Father. I’m sorry.”

“I do not want your sorrow,” a tired voice came. “I never did, child.”

When Ava reached Jaron, he turned her to face the crowd.

“This,” he began, his solemn voice filling the room, “is the daughter of my blood.” He put his hands on Ava’s shoulders, and her mating marks lit under his power. “Wholly mated to a son of the Forgiven.”

Ava felt every eye in the Library focus on her. She wanted to shrink, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to hide, but Jaron would never let her. Whatever his purpose had been in keeping her safe, she knew it was for this moment.

“For thousands of years, we have hidden them,” Barak said. “But no more. Your enemies gather while you argue over petty human concerns.”
 

Jaron said, “Our sons took your daughters, so this day, we give you ours.”

Ava saw the singers around the room flinch.

“Thousands of years they have lingered in hiding. Some killed by the hands of their brothers or fathers. Some mad with the voices you have managed to conquer.” Jaron spoke to the gathered elder singers. “Find them and protect them. Add the strength of their blood to the wisdom of yours. Do this, and we will enact vengeance for the crimes against you.”

Daina bravely took a step forward. “Why?”

“Volund approaches. He has made allies, even within your own ranks. If you are to wipe this enemy from the earth, you must stop fighting. You have been given the wisdom of the Forgiven. Use it for more than your own interests. Protect these vulnerable, and you will be our allies.”

Jerome said, “We want no help from the Fallen.”

Anurak stood. “Do not speak for those who have been silent, brother. What do you propose, Angel?”

“An alliance for now. Volund’s sons linger at your gates. Grimold’s get already walk among you. Walk outside and see what your city has become.”

Ava looked at Sari, who rushed from the gallery along with several of the scribes from the opposite sides of the room.

Muttering and whispers filled the Library as Ava felt the eyes of the Irin fix on her and Kyra. She reached out for the other woman’s hand, feeling her panic.

“Ava,” Jaron said, leaning down till his mouth was at her ear. “It is time to show them.”

“Show them what?”

“I show you what was has been, what will be, and what could be. Do not fear the darkness. Sing.”

The vision rushed into her mind so quickly Ava knew she was only a conduit between the angel and the audience. Her mouth opened and song poured out. It was not the deliberate poetry she had studied, but a raw rush of tone and emotion. She didn’t even recognize the words she spoke. In an instant, she saw the whole of Jaron’s vision, and the scales fell from her eyes.

Two dark-haired children with golden eyes. A girl, laughing as butterflies swirled around her. A boy staring back at her with his father’s petulance. An ink-black jaguar curled around the children protectively as a wolf and a tiger paced behind. The tiger bent to the girl, opening his mouth. The great beast closed his jaw around her nape as she continued to smile and pet its cheek.
 

Behind the delicate tableau, a great circle rose in the sky. A sun twisted with gold and silver. Higher and higher it rose until the moon covered its brilliance. In the sudden flash of darkness, a million scattered points of light became visible in the heavens, dancing tremulously in concert to a gathering song.

A bird of prey called as the darkness passed, its scream shattering the song of the stars. The jaguar leapt. It reached into the sky until its arms became the wings of an eagle that crashed into the attacking bird in the light of a blood-red eclipse. They battled, tearing each other’s flesh as ash and blood rained down on a city of stones. Turning and twisting, the two battled higher as the wolf below howled and the tiger leapt on the jackals that were laughing in the barren streets.

Then both birds dropped, twisting into men of impossible beauty, and a jagged sword rose from the city of stone, piercing the angels as they fell.

As the last note carried over the assembly, Ava’s breath left her and everything went black.

VI.

THE THREE ANGELS KNELT beside her, Vasu brushing the hair from her forehead as delicately as a mother with a child.

“Will she survive?”

“Yes.” Jaron’s eyes swept the Library, but the assembly had shifted, a slight twist in dimension allowing him a last moment alone with her.

Though Ava still slept, he gathered the girl into his arms and rocked her as he had seen her mother do when she was a child.

Thirty years of watching over her at a distance. A blink of an eye. A sudden gasp of breath.

And yet.

Within her blood lay the secret.

“I know.” Jaron bent to her ear, uncaring of his brothers, who listened in. “I understand why now.”

Ava’s eyes fluttered open. “Me too.”

“What have you done to me, daughter?”

“The only worthy sacrifice is the one that hurts. How much do you want forgiveness?”

A drop fell on her cheek, and Jaron realized he was weeping.

“Will you tell her?” he asked his daughter’s daughter.

“I’ll tell her you loved her, and you wished you could say good-bye.”

“I called her Ava because she was the voice of heaven to me. She called me
Bâbâ
when she was a child.”

Ava put her hand on his cheek, and for the first time in thousands of years, Jaron felt it. He had been hollow before. Ava’s union with the scribe—their impossible, unpredictable love—had altered his reality forever.

For the first time in his eons of existence, Jaron felt. “Now that I must leave, I find that I do not want to go.”

“
Bâbâ
,” Ava whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Free her. Free them all. And return.”

“Ava,” he said. “Daughter of my blood.” Jaron bent down and kissed her forehead, then he whispered in her ear.

She closed her eyes and nodded.

Then Jaron blinked, and Ava was gone. He stood and faced his chosen brothers: Barak, who would be with him until the end, and Vasu, who had chosen to stay behind.

“Do you understand what you lose, brother?” he asked Barak.

“Unlike you”—the angel’s eyes held what Jaron now recognized as torment—“my magic mixed with the Forgiven’s long ago. I am ready.”

Jaron narrowed his eyes but asked no more questions.
 

“And you?” he asked Vasu.

“Someone has to stay behind and watch,” Vasu said with a casual shrug.

“Do it,” Barak said. “She is one of them now. Power surrounds her. Lower the shields and call him.”

Jaron looked at Vasu. “Are you ready?”

The dark angel grinned a predatory smile. “Go.”

Chapter Twenty-five

MALACHI HELD ANOTHER KNIFE out to Kostas, who tucked it into the cleverly sewn pockets in his robe. Damien was searching the armory for one specific weapon, but Malachi didn’t know what it was. The chamber held case after case of blades of various eras and styles. Knives were most common, with throwing daggers a close second. Spears and swords hung on the stone walls. There were even a few crossbows and an ax or two. Malachi and Kostas were looking through the knives and hiding those they would smuggle out of the Library.
 

After a few more minutes, Damien came back bearing an intricately cut dagger. “Thought you might like to use this one.”

“Why?”

He looked confused. “It’s the one Brage used in Istanbul when he killed you. Too morbid?”

Malachi looked at the dagger, remembering the pitch-black blade the Grigori had balanced on his finger on the roof of the building in Oslo, then he looked back at Damien. “This isn’t Brage’s dagger. He carried it in Oslo. Ava gave it to Jaron when I killed Brage.”

Damien’s eyes went hard. “Are you saying this isn’t a heaven-forged blade?”

Malachi shrugged. “I have no idea. But I know that’s not the dagger that killed me.”

“Dammit.” Damien looked around the armory. “I wonder—”

“How many of these are actually heaven forged?” Kostas asked, picking through the rows of weapons. “Not all of them. Maybe half. Some of these are far too new.”

“What do you know about angel blades?” Malachi asked.
 

“We all have our hobbies,” Kostas said, picking up a rusted weapon that looked far from useful.
 

The Grigori brought it up to his face and breathed on it. Taking the edge of his own knife, he cut a long gash in his forearm, wetting the edge of one of his linen wrappings with blood before he took it and carefully wiped the blade. After a few minutes, he held it up again. The blade was a dull pewter in color, but the edge was sharp again, the blade now clearly lethal.

“Angel blades are best cleaned with blood. It restores them. If you’re not sure if a blade is genuine, try that. A good rule of thumb is that anything forged in the past thousand years is probably a fake or simply something confiscated from an angel but isn’t a heaven-forged blade.”

“I thought all angels carried them,” Malachi said.

“They’re rare,” Kostas told them, “even among the Fallen. Lesser angels usually can’t keep them, so any blade taken from one of the lesser Fallen is probably just a sword. And of course, some of them don’t need them. Guardians of heaven carry swords within their bodies.”

Malachi and Damien both gawked.

“Unlike you,” Kostas said with a grim smile, “my father is an angel. I do know a few things.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Malachi said, turning back to the racks.

“Wait.” Damien held up a hand. “I hear…”

Without warning, the doors to the armory groaned and swung open. Library guards rushed in, only to halt with wide eyes when they saw the two scribes and the man dressed as a Rafaene in the process of stealing weapons.