Archon

Archon

Israfel rather enjoyed the sight of the human stumbling into his nest.

Angels were fond of freshness and youth, and though he’d expected
a girl, maybe even a woman, this turn of events was undeniably
interesting. Here was an opportunity to be relished; a
beautiful thing, weak and fragile as glass. The young man was
slender, but also tall and well-built, ringlets of brown hair spilling
against the base of his strong neck. He’d hesitated, one hand
resting on the door handle. Now he leaned forward, scanning the
church’s insides, breathing softly.

“Yes?” Israfel peered from behind a column.

The human gasped. His hand slipped, snapping the handle
back into place.

It was a typical reaction. Any angel could be beautiful, but Israfel
knew he painted a far more imposing picture than most. His
figure bordered on ambiguous, his blue eyes were larger than a
human’s, ringed with stylized circles of kohl, and the hair that
framed them shimmered whiter than the stars. A single word from
his lips and the universe stilled to listen. This wasn’t the first time
he’d left someone with nothing to say.

“Your name then?” he said more gently.

The human shut the double doors, their handles latching with
a click.

Slowly, he crept closer, too enthralled not to get a better look.
But his journey stopped at a mildew-covered pew, and he steadied
himself with a hand on its armrest. “My name is—Brendan,” he
whispered. “Brendan Mathers.” 

“My name is Israfel.” He glided out into the open, still feigning
shyness.

Silence lingered between them, rain pattering against the
church’s outer walls, droning steadily as it dampened old buttresses
and statues. The building was small compared to others
in the city, but sadly abandoned to time and the elements. Holes
speckled the lower ceiling, some revealing the towers sparkling
against the night sky, others allowing the breeze to bluster raindrops
into puddles near Israfel’s feet. Mold splotched the altar,
darkened spots of the walls, stained paintings, and obscured once-
intricate tapestries.

Brendan, though, was oblivious to it all. “Israfel . . .” he whispered
again. “You are aware this part of the Academy is off-limits
to civilians and students?”

“You were listening to me sing, weren’t you?”

Brendan swallowed, his voice cracking. “That has nothing to
do with the fact that you’re in a restricted area and—”

“We both know I’m not a student.”

Israfel allowed his toes to catch the light, their tiny scales glistening
like diamond dust.

Thunder, too faint for human ears, rumbled out in the distance.
Another storm was arriving fast, threatening to saturate
the church. Israfel made a show of brushing dirt from his feet
and stepped gracefully toward the altar at the end of the aisle, its
odor of rotten wood stale and thick.

From the book ARCHON: The Books of Raziel by Sabrina Benulis. Copyright C 2012 by Sabrina Benulis. Reprinted by arrangement with Harper Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.