Without any face he answered, "So another might live."
"What do you people care about Elijah?"
"I care as much as you."
"No," I said. "You don't."
"The prophet Elijah ascended bodily to heaven-"
"Jesus, Fane, I don't need a Bible studies refresher from the likes of you."
"-the only man to do so besides Christ."
"The prophet Elijah didn't die, he ascended alive."
"And according to Jewish faith he will return to usher in the coming of the true messiah."
I squinted at him. "You people don't really believe this is the prophet Elijah returned, do you?"
"Some might," he said, his voice above, behind, and in front of me. "And they might do anything to protect him."
Or kill him, I thought.
There wasn't any anger here. No righteous wrath or petty intolerance. His grin shone through the blankness like that of the Cheshire Cat. He thought he was being honest and proud, but I could see his fear as the air warmed again. "Abbot John would like to speak to you in his chambers."
Fane eased away limping back down the hallway, smiling almost giddily to himself. He was, somehow, a man full of hope.
"Wake the beast," he said. "You're going to need it."
The stink on him was bad milk.
Chapter Eight
Unlike Uriel and Aaron DeLancre, who'd always been destined for Magee Wails, Abbot John had been born into the typical world and hurled against the mount by his own crimes.
He gave the impression of being almost as wide as he was tall, a solid block of mortal mortar who'd once enjoyed twisting the heads off dogs, raping geriatric women in their nursing home beds, and tracking families relocated by the Witness Protection agency. He'd suffered from visions and garnered a taste for the carotid. When he met my father his hallucinations ended, and in one overwhelming surge Abbot John's sanity engulfed him. Perhaps it was actually my dad's own finite rationality that had been given up, since a short time later he gave in to the rush of his madness.
The years hadn't been kind and neither had Abbot John's atonement. He hanged himself daily and the rope burns had been raw and wet for over a decade now. The graceless angles of his face folded in on themselves as if he couldn't swallow enough of the man he'd once been.
His bald head shone in the candlelight. He'd shaved off his eyebrows and plucked out each of his eyelashes. It made him look foolish, which was the whole purpose. His hands clenched and unclenched, and the veins in his wrists squirmed like centipedes. He still had the haunted appearance of a man who knew that no matter how much good he did in his life it would never equal the amount of harm he'd caused. His eyes were still clear and merciful, but when he smiled I knew his course wouldn't be swayed. He trusted me but that wasn't nearly enough. If he had to, he'd crush my skull in his fist. If he didn't kill himself first.
After all of his hangings he had hardly any voice anymore. It trickled out between his lips in a guttural whisper, like the hiss of water on a heated tablet of granite. "You've made a significant oath here."
"Yes."
"That was foolish in this place."
"Not as foolish as your believing that Cathy's child is the true prophet Elijah."
"You don't know that it's not."
"I do know, but you won't believe me."
I could tell he was eager for the rope. "You've made a heinous error that's endangered us all," he wheezed. "You have no concept of what wheels you've allowed to turn."
Or stopped from turning. "Okay, so tell me."
His fists opened again and the candlelight flickered across his palms, looking like the running blood of elderly women. "Janice is my sister." His chest heaved as he fought to control himself and all that was inside himself. "Catherine, my niece."
He couldn't say any more. His words caught in his damaged throat, his fresh wounds oozing across his scapular. I realized that as abbot of Armon he felt equally responsible for my oath as he did for any other unanswered plea or ill-kept promise on Magee Wails island. Events had already spiraled out of his minimal control. He stroked his upper lip as if wanting the mustache he'd once worn when gathering dogs from the pound.
He whispered a word I knew well.
The rage didn't need to build, it erupted alive and throbbing while my second self snored daintily with his eyes open. I breathed through my teeth. "What the hell's gotten into you people?"
He repeated himself. "Sacrifice." Even with his gasping I knew he threw a little something extra in how he said it, as if making the word his own. Melting wax dripped loudly and candle flames wavered in the draft. He blinked his lashless eyes at me. "Jebediah may be strong enough to succeed."
"No," I said. "He isn't. He won't."
"Even you don't sound very certain."
"I am."
"Perhaps you shouldn't be." Swirls of blurred moonlight made their way across the room. "I've seen the faces of the two hundred seraphim who consented to the fall, the 'sons of God, who saw the daughters of man and that they were fair.' The angels Sanyasa, Armers, Ramuel-"
"And Saneveel, Batraal, yes, I know their names. Why is everyone giving me Bible lessons today?"
"They descended upon Armon, Mount of the Oath, and became men no more contemptible or noble than any of us. Imagine them giving up all of paradise for what was to be found on earth. Imagine how far they'd go to get what they wanted."
"And what did they want?" I asked. "Affirmation."
I slumped farther down in my seat and tried not to sigh. "I've got a feeling that you don't know the first goddamn thing that you're talking about."
"Sacrifice is purity. I do know that."
"Are you speaking of redemption or murder? You think you can find atonement by killing children?"
"You've a narrow view of sacrifice."
"No, I don't, John."
My lost love Danielle had been an offering of many kinds to many forces. To my ardor. To the sins of my father. To the obsession of Elijah, and the egomania of Jebediah. To the virtue of her own soul. When she should have left my side at the covine tree and run for her life she'd instead chosen to say behind. In the moment of her death her integrity had been hacked to bits in the dying light of church fires, and each of us had stolen as many pieces of her as we could.
Arcane energy leaked from my eyes and mouth and drifted around the room. Hexes formed under my tongue and I kept sucking them back down. Abbot John drew back and his shining head reflected flame.
I said, "I know about loss."
"My apologies."
"If the angels wanted humanity, then they had to take everything that went along with that decision. They should have learned as much from Cain as from any other man. One of the earliest lessons of the world is that sometimes God doesn't accept our sacrifices."
As a man who hanged himself every day, the thought terrified him. "We … we are all only instruments and follow the natural course of His will."
He only heard what he wanted to hear. "Your recitations and metaphors have been puerile for twenty centuries, John, and this is a place of clarity. I made my oath succinctly, the least you can do is talk to me without such banal platitudes."
He nodded once, and his face went blank like a knight's visor suddenly lowering. "It's only partly metaphor, the rest is up to you. I had a vision. She is to die here."
"You don't have visions anymore."
"I've dreamed a great deal lately." He frowned, not wanting to share something. "Some about you. Some about Archangel Michael."
"I don't care about them."
If he had a voice he'd be yelling, but his resolve could only eke out of him in a diminutive whine. "Cathy is to die. She carries Elijah. Jebediah has sent him to herald the resurrection of the messiah before-"