The pre-dawn run had almost begun to feel normal.
Sam would rouse him just before Sixth Bell. How she awoke he had no idea, but each morning she’d shake his shoulder, and wordless, he’d rise to don his training gear, laid out the night before.
Shivering and stumbling down through the gloom of the unlit house, he’d meet Sam at the front door where she’d hand him a fruit and cup of water. He’d toss the water back, then eat the fruit as they strode down the gravel drive, the crunch of their footsteps all that could be heard in this dead bell of the city.
Out the gate, and from there they’d fall into a slow jog, muscles sore, body aching, but each dawn a little less.
Each dawn he found the cruel, biting air more invigorating, and his body more responsive to his will.
Not that his muscles and joints had ceased to complain; it’s just that by the fourth morning run he’d learned to tune them out. To trust that their lamentations would grow quiet as he warmed up, and to know that he could force his body on.
To the mist-strewn park. The lawns were clothed in banks of the finest white fog, soon to be burned away by the sun. The trees were dark and held amidst their boughs a deep and earthen scent that Harald had found nowhere else in the city. The grass glistened with dew as if flecked with glass. The few runners who were out at this hour had begun to feel less like judgmental mockers and more like fellow warriors; they acknowledged Sam on occasion, who’d been coming out to make this run for years, but still, slowly, tentatively, Harald was allowing to think himself one of their number.
The stitch didn’t dig into his side as immediately as before. He was able to get a full lap around the park before he began to labor, to breathe more shallowly, to sweat.
It was still work.
Hard work.
The warmth and buoyancy would only last about a lap or two, and then the invisible mud would begin to rise to mire his feet, to make each stride a growing effort.
But Harald recognized progress. He was Constitution 6, and that gave him just a little more speed, a little more staying power.
Sam was serious during these morning runs. She didn’t jest or banter or comment on the day before. Harald wanted nothing more than to discuss Evernessa’s arrival, but Sam’s sober, focused expression cut him off as always.
Running was a form of meditation for her, he’d come to realize. A silent hour when nobody and nothing had any claim on her mind and spirit but the needs of her long muscles and athletic frame. She’d always run the first lap with him, and just as he began to slow, she’d finish her warm-up and lengthen her stride, leaving him behind.
That day, as he passed a pocket lawn known as the Fisherman’s Well for its tiny pond, Harald saw a small gathering of people listening to a man in the long azure and black robes of a Seraphite of the Fallen Angel. He stood on the bench, his arms outstretched, his gaunt face striking in the gloom.
Curious, Harald slowed and then stopped, leaving the path to draw closer.
The man’s voice was unnervingly impassioned, clashing with the dawn’s hallowed stillness.
“We labor, but for what cause? We race, but to where? Blinded by the needs of our mortal flesh, we moan and struggle, convinced that we are the masters of our own lives, but the moment we believe that… we are lost. When will we raise our eyes to the heavens and realize that within our bodies we are consubstantial with the Fallen Angel itself? That our very ability to absorb its scales, to feast on its carcass, makes of us as holy as its fallen self?”
The crowd listening to him was perhaps seven or eight strong, and they seemed enraptured by the man’s fervor.
“The Fallen Angel cast itself to earth, burying itself fathoms deep in the rocky mantle so as to provide us with sustenance. Yet what do we make of its bounty, what do we do with its precious scales? Like beasts we anoint ourselves with them, bind them to our brows as marks of wealth and power, and seek to leverage our ownership of divinity over the rest of humanity. How else should we gaze upon those noble houses who hoard the scales, who use their greatest finds as testament of their nobility, but with horror? Our solemn obligation is to consume the Fallen Angel, and in so doing, elevate ourselves and sanctify its gift!”
Harald took a step back. This was an extreme ideology, a heretical splinter of the common Angelus strain he’d heard in countless Mausoleums of the Fallen Angel as a child, when he’d been dragged there by his mother.
But his retreat drew the Seraphite’s attention. The man glared at him, then his eyes widened. “You there! Why do you reek of filth? In what mud have you dragged your spirit?”
The crowd turned to eye him, and Harald felt a spike of panic.
Nobody liked being singled out by the Seraphites, and this man’s words were danger.
Harald stepped back onto the path.
“You!” The Seraphite’s voice rang clear. “Come to me so that I may shrive your soul! You are imperiled! I can scent your rot from here! You!”
Harald took off at a run, and in moments had left the Fisherman’s Well behind in the shadows and mist.
What the hell had that been about? His soul reeked? Could the Seraphite sense the Demon Seed?
Terrified, Harald glanced behind him, half-expecting to see the Seraphite chasing after him, robes streaming, gangly limbs pumping, clawed hand extended.
Heart hammering, he settled down to a slower jog, thoughts whirling. He’d not kept abreast of religious matters, had ultimately decided, like his father, that these disagreements and schisms were both inevitable and faintly ridiculous, seeing as nobody could claim to have spoken with the Fallen Angel in centuries.
But an attack on the very foundation of the noble houses was serious business. The division between church and state was a tenuous one, but both traditionally agreed to avert their gazes from their respective practices.
A Seraphite calling for the houses to consume all their scales?
Harald was surprised the guard hadn’t been called.
He ran on, his momentary boost slowly abating, and by the time he reached the park’s entrance he was gasping and sweating as ever. But there he stopped till Sam came running lightly in to view, the sky already lightening to a soft blue, the light slowly turning golden.
“What is it?” she asked, only slightly breathless.
“I caught the eye of a Seraphite preaching in at the Fisherman’s.” Harald raked his fingers through this short hair. “I think I’d best steer clear of the park for now.”
Sam sighed, glanced along the path, then shrugged. “All right. We’ll supplement with something else at home. What did he say?”
Harald told her as they walked home.
“An Essentialist,” she said in surprise. “It’s an old creed come again. There’s been a revival of the ‘old ways’ these past few years, in reaction, I think, to the drying up of the scales brought back from the raids.”
“You’re…” Harald hesitated, unsure how to ask without offending. “Ah, religious?”
Sam stared at him. “Harald. We live and breathe only to worship the Fallen Angel. Every moment is a sacrament in her honor. What do you mean, am I religious?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Harald stared at her in horror until she cracked up and bent over, laughing. “Oh, your face! No, I’m not ‘religious’. Not in that way. I mean, I accept the basic credo and all that, but, well.” She shrugged. “I’ll take it more seriously if the Fallen Angel ever decides to have a word with me.”
“Oh good,” said Harald. “You scared the crap out of me. I’ve been discovering so many sides to you that ‘religious fanatic’ would only complete the transformation.”
“But seriously, an Essentialist here in the Angelic Quarter? That’s alarming. Watch an Inquisitor be sent to shut them up.”
“Not our problem,” said Harald, glancing behind them. “At least, that’s how I want to keep it.”
I can scent your rot from here!
What rot? The man was mad. Harald put him out of his mind, and decided to not think on him again.
* * *
Evernessa arrived just after breakfast, opening the front door without knocking and calling out her hello.
Harald led the way out from the kitchen, and there she was, wearing leather breeches, a peasant’s blouse cinched around her narrow waist with a broad belt, and her mass of dark curls gathered back by a band of gold to then cascade down her back.
Evernessa. For years he’d dreamed of daring her to be more than his friend, had watched her through so many late night revelries, admiring her confidence, her casual cruelty, her wry wit, her natural beauty. Such was her charm that she could look as devastating in a bathrobe as she could a ballgown; she had that careless charisma, that laughing confidence, that dark allure that made everything she did, every pose she took, every moment of distraction or fixation just as fascinating and arresting.
She smiled at the sight of the three of them, her features drawn, her gray eyes ringed with shadows. “And here I am, as promised.” She spread her arms, her smile mocking, and gave a shallow curtsy. “My bags are at the base of the steps. Sam, be a dear and fetch them?”
“Sam’s free of her oath,” said Harald. “A lot’s changed this past week.”
Evernessa raised one finely arched brow. “Freed? It would seem congratulations are in order, then. Still, I’m tired. Could somebody fetch my bags?”
“I’ll do it,” sighed Sam, striding forward. “Before Vic orders me to as his ‘disciple’.”
“I said not a word!” protested Vic, putting his hand to his chest. “But welcome, Nessa, to our cozy little home. It’s been a dream, living together like this. You’re going to adore it. All the wine you can drink, the run of the house, and what’s more, Harald will now do whatever you say as long as you can convince him it’s training.”
Harald felt his cheeks burn as Nessa chuckled throatily. She made her way forward, moving with great deliberation, and as she drew near the reek of a night on the town came with her, that of wine, yearnsmoke, and who knew what tavern. She placed her palm on his cheek and leaned in. “You always were so accommodating, weren’t you, Harald? I… I…”
Nessa’s eyes abruptly rolled up in her head as her legs gave out. Harald grabbed hold of her as she sagged, and then Vic was there, helping pull her over to one of the chairs set against the wall.
“Darling,” said Vic, tone hushed as he checked her pulse. “What have you been doing? Don’t tell me you were at the Black Rose last night?”
“Hmm?” Nessa turned her head away, her full lips pulling into a smile. “Of course not. Never. And even if I was, I’m not there now, am I? I’m here. With Harry.” And her eyes fluttered as she smiled up at him.
Her skin was tight over her cheekbones, and her lips pale.
“The gods damn it,” muttered Vic, pulling her sleeve back down. “She needs rest and water. Darling, you were supposed to work today. You’re of no use to us like this.”
She closed her eyes as she struggled to sit up. “I can work. Just you watch. I brought all my blades. Anyone who thinks otherwise… they can…”
Vic sighed and straightened. In a matter of moments Nessa had fallen asleep, her head rolling to one side.
“I suppose we’ll have to carry her to bed,” said Vic.
“What’s going on?” asked Harald quietly. “What’s the Black Rose?”
“A place for idiots,” said Vic, tone tight with barely constrained anger. “And she swore she’d never return. Well. If she doesn’t get her act together, we may need to find you a new tutor.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Nessa, her eyes still closed. “Even like this I can outfence anyone in Flutic.”
“Now that’s a bald lie.” Vic bent to scoop her up in his arms. “Come on, Harry-boy, let’s get her upstairs. Sam? Sam! Bring warm salted water. We’re going to have to purge this idiot if she’s to be of any use to us.”
Sam had just appeared in the doorway, two carpet bags in hand, and stared in confusion at the scene. “What happened?”
“Warm salted water, if you will. Harry? Lead on.”
They climbed to the second floor, and placed Nessa in the room Sam had prepared for her. Vic unlaced and tugged off her knee-high boots, but when he considered the rest of her clothing he scowled. “Damn it.”
“Vic.” Harald pulled him away. “She’s not just exhausted or drunk. What’s going on?”
Vic sighed, cut an angry glance at where Nessa lay, then shook his head. “She’s a fondness and weakness both for angel’s glory.”
Harald’s eyes widened. “She does glory?”
“Oh calm down, she’s hardly the only one. But yes.” Vic bit the corner of his lip. “Though she’d sworn to me that she was done. Do you recall some four months ago when she and I disappeared for several weeks? You were driven half-mad with loneliness?”
“Yes. I started asking around. Nobody knew where you were.”
“I was helping her get off the glory.” Vic’s expression was hard and angry and saddened both. “It wasn’t pretty, Harry-boy. But she swore she was done, and it’s not as if I’m her mother. When I saw her yesterday afternoon, she was fine. Fiddling away in her apartment. She’d signed up for another audition to enter the Conservatory, said she was done with the violence. That it was… banal.”
“And… what? You think this job tipped her over?”
“Perhaps. When I told her how much it might pay, her eyes lit up like bonfires. I thought it mere greed. But now look at her.”
Nessa’s black curls were spread across the pillow, one hand curled before her face, her breathing shallow and rapid, her brow covered with a sheen of sweat. She looked fevered.
“Fuck,” said Vic.
Harald felt lost. His whole life he’d enjoyed skirting around the edges of Flutic’s true dives, escorted by Vic and his friends who seemed perfectly at home in even the most dangerous corners of the metropolis. But his father’s rank disdain for drugs had made an impression on him; even when most tempted he’d never done more than a puff or two of yearnsmoke.
To think Nessa, who’d always seemed so perfectly in control of herself, so confident and assured and disdainful of the world, to be doing angel’s glory…
Sam entered the room with an empty bowl and large pitcher in hand.
“There,” said Vic. “Well, Harald, I’ll put it to you: do we do our best by Nessa, and try to get her on her feet, or shall we kick her out on her ass when she wakes up so that we may hunt for another instructor?”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Sam.
Harald told her in.
If anything, Sam was even more shocked, and drew back from Nessa as if she were contagious. “Angel’s glory? There’s no curing that. And we don’t have the time or energy to help her.”
“True,” said Vic. “Now, Harald, imagine Nessa was a corpulent man of fifty years called Blogbert. What would you decide then?”
“Good point,” said Sam. “Harald’s always been taken by Nessa. He’ll agree to help her because he’s smitten.”
Harald crossed his arms. There was so much on the line. So little time. And angel’s glory was infamous for how many people it had killed since appearing in the city a decade ago.
“Vic, tell me honestly. How good a teacher is she?”
“At her best?” Vic considered. “Excellent. She’s a Level 4 Bladeweaver, but beyond that she’s a knack for conveying knowledge. Probably part of her bardic talent. And honestly, we’re getting her at a sharp discount, given that I know that she’s broke and depends on me for business.”
“How much are you paying her?” asked Sam suspiciously.
“None of your business, my upstart maid. Regardless, she’s not at her best.”
“No.” Harald rubbed at his jaw. “Did she seem high when you spoke to her yesterday? Or show any signs of having done glory?”
“No. Though I’m no medic, and Nessa is an actress nonpareil. Still, I’ve known her for seven years now. I think not.”
“Then… I don’t know how this all works, but could she just have relapsed for one night?”
“Oh Harald.” Vic’s gaze was pitying. “You’re reaching for justifications, aren’t you?”
“I told you,” said Sam.
“This is what we’re going to do.” Harald licked his lower lip, thoughts coalescing. “We’ll make her an offer when she wakes up. She can stay here, live here, teach Sam and me, on the condition that she not do angel’s glory. The moment she does, she’s out. Furthermore, we’re going to ensure there’s no temptation. She won’t be allowed to leave the house without one of us escorting her.”
“She’ll never agree to that,” said Vic.
“Then she’s welcome to leave, and Sam and I will hunt down that Eadwulf instructor her smith told her about.”
“Ooh, an ultimatum,” said Vic. “You know those are only as effective as their enforcement? What’s to stop her from shimmying up to you as she’s always done, putting her hand on your chest and with just the largest, most sorrowful eyes begging for your forgiveness? I’ll be frank, it wouldn’t be the first or tenth or hundredth time she’s wrapped you around her finger.”
“I know.” Harald shook his head morosely. “I can’t count how many scales I’ve ‘loaned’ her over the years. But this time is different. She’ll get one chance, and one chance alone. And if she lies or breaks our agreement? Then it’s over.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Sam, tone flat. “She can’t be trusted.”
“There’s only one way to find out. But if she’s as good as Vic says, and she’s willing to try, I’ll give her a chance. And no. I won’t lie. She’s a friend. We’ve known each other for four years now. If she’s willing to do her part, then I’m willing to risk it.”
“Never change, darling,” said Vic, patting Harald on the shoulder. “That way you’ll always be a source of wealth and good times for me and mine. Now, both of you, out. I must begin the singularly unpleasant business of purging our dark angel, and you won’t want to see what that involves. Only come in if I call for you, understood? Ignore whatever sounds emanate from this room otherwise. Even if it does sound like I’m killing her.”
Harald hesitated, but when Sam nodded firmly, he did the same.
“We’ll be in the gym doing our exercises,” said Sam. “The perfect opportunity for me to work out my frustrations on this bonehead.”
“Call us if you need help,” said Harald weakly. “Good luck.”
“There’s precious little luck involved,” sighed Vic, unbutton his cuff. “Just an iron stomach, deaf ears, and a heart of stone.”
Harald paused at the threshold. For a moment he stared at Evernessa’s peaceful face, and then he grimaced, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.