OAKLAND. There’d been nothing to explain the sense of anticipation, the exhilaration and hope that filled him when he first heard mention of this city.
Shackled, sold like an animal, he couldn’t have predicted he would find freedom here—love—and with it redemption, a purpose other than vengeance and retribution.
Araña. Her name was a joyous shout in his soul, her body sweet pleasure and carnal torment.
Thinking about her made him harden. Being away from her was a scraping of sharp edges against his skin, a piercing of his heart, though with the binding of their spirits and the sharing of breath, Tir knew she lived and was safe.
He stood in front of the church. It was a huge, elaborate affair, a testament to wealth and power as much as to faith.
With his memory restored he could remember the very beginnings of it, all the iterations and deviations it had taken. The different directions it had gone off in. Splitting and splitting again in seemingly endless repetitions.
There’d never been only one belief, one interpretation of the creator’s words and signs. The being they called God was unknowable to the creatures he’d fashioned from mud and breathed his spirit into. Just as he was often unknowable to his first sons and daughters, angels created from light and divine essence.
Tir climbed the steps. He passed through an arched doorway carved with images of his kind and entered the sanctuary. Even the Fallen could get this far, though their pleas for forgiveness weren’t answered.
Inside, the air was cool and scented by candles. A handful of old men and women knelt on velvet-lined benches, heads bowed in prayer.
He walked by them, closing his mind to their entreaties and emotions though he felt the sudden race of their hearts as, deep within, they recognized him despite the human appearance he wore.
At the doorway leading into the private part of the church there were wards in place. Ancient protections against demons. Against Satan—The Usurper—the tester of human souls. And though the humans no longer remembered what the sigils meant, there were symbols carved there to protect against the wrath of the Djinn. Tir passed through the doorway without resistance or fear, moving farther into the church.
A young priest emerged from an office. He startled at the sight of Tir, started to frown but paled instead with the realization that the strap across Tir’s bare chest held a sheath with a machete in it.
The papers in the priest’s hand shook but he found his courage. “You can’t be in this part of the church unaccompanied. I’ll show you to the main office unless you’d prefer to return to the chapel.”
Tir let a portion of his humanity fall away, used the voice that had once commanded legions and caused men to prostrate themselves before him. “I am here to see Father Ursu. You will take me to him.”
The priest complied, his heartbeat thunder in Tir’s mind. He turned and led the way, escorting Tir first through the areas set aside for the everyday work of the church and then into the domain of those who ruled it.
Utilitarian furniture gave way to antiques. Pastoral art gave way to glorious paintings done by masters dead long before The Last War.
“This is his office,” the young priest said, stopping before a closed door, licking his lips and nervously backing away.
Tir read the priest’s intention to call the guards. It mattered little. By the time they arrived the business with Ursu would be done.
In the interest of creating as little a ripple as possible for any of his kind to discover and question, Tir spoke in soothing tones, stripping away the priest’s worry by saying, “Father Ursu will come to no harm at my hands this day. Leave in peace.”
Calmness settled over the young priest. He turned from Tir, his attention going to the papers in his hands as he retraced his steps.
Tir waited only a moment before entering the suite Ursu commanded. Two men turned, one with a port-wine stain marking his face, the other wearing black robes woven of the finest material.
Ursu stopped in midsentence, his gaze going immediately to Tir’s bared arms, searching for and not finding the tattoos that had once covered them. “If you could excuse me for a moment, Graham,” he said, dismissing his companion.
“I’ll wait out in the hallway.”
The man slipped from the room, seemingly unbothered by the sight of Tir and the machete he carried.
Fear poured off the priest, measuring both his devotion and the heavy weight of the deeds he carried on his soul in serving his faith. His spirit trembled like a living thing trying to escape the presence of one who could see and judge it unworthy.
Tir had thought the priest would cower, praying for mercy and pleading his case. Instead Ursu remained standing, waiting, stirring memories to life of the thousands of years Tir had spent in the hands of men like this one.
The desire for vengeance rose inside him, a dark, cold temptation that had Tir lifting his hand to call his sword.
Don’t, Araña said, a part of her with him always. Finish the task Addai set before you and come back to me.
Images accompanied her command, a carnal tangle of male and female, of wings and flesh, that came on a hot desert wind of desire and burned away thoughts of the past.
Tir met the priest’s eyes. “My hand is stayed from striking you down. But see that I am now beyond your reach. Know that if you continue to search for the healer Rebekka or cause any harm to befall her, nothing will save you from my wrath, and it will not be a paradise your soul is delivered to.”