The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [73]
She saw it form, and she understood. It split from Nicolas like a shard from a crystal, and roiled and shaped, becoming a black, winged skeleton, a mockery of Uriel and his kind. It flew.
It passed through her point of view, and she understood something else. It was going to kill her body.
You, she said. You tried to kill me before, back in Saint Petersburg. You sent that death, too.
I am he who makes angels, Nicolas said. And you serve the devil. He escaped me, just now, when I could have slain him. Because of you! You tricked me!
I am your mother, Nicolas! I gave birth to you.
His laughter was crystal music. I gave birth to myself. My mother is the wind, and God is my father. I am the union of flesh, spirit, and the world. Who dares to speak to me so?
I am your mother.
No. They told me to expect you, but I didn't recognize you. I thought you were my friend. But I have no friends.
They? Swedenborg? Golitsyn? They are liars!
They are my servants, Nicolas answered, as the angels are my servants. They cannot lie to me.
Adrienne! It was Uriel, shrieking again. At once her vision split, her son's face fading as the ship reappeared. A sky full of flame, the steady thrumming of guns, lurching impacts of enemy fire. A nearby sailor shriveling in a cocoon of flame.
And the death, stooping on her. And Uriel falling upon the death from above, like God's great hawk. The aether screamed about her.
Gritting her teeth, she strengthened the forces connecting her to Nicolas, but he was fighting her, withdrawing—and then, from outside, something grabbed, tripled the affinity between them and they slammed together, she and Nicolas. For an instant she saw his face again, and then for an eye blink saw through his eyes. She saw Swedenborg, a laboratory, a brittle-looking device—
Then white light. Uriel reappeared, his form shredding apart, but the death was not to be seen.
“I told you,” the seraph said faintly. “We are undone. I am undone.”
And he was. “Finish what we started.” He sighed, then fell apart. All her servants tore apart, as the ship beneath her lurched sickeningly.
She awoke to the world of matter, to screams of despair, the deck of the ship tilting. Two of the globes that supported it had flickered out and crashed amongst the crew. The other two were almost bursting. For an instant, her sense of déjà vu almost paralyzed her: this had happened before, at the siege of Venice—when she had lost Nico the first time.
Now her son hated her. Now he wanted her dead.
In that instant she might have welcomed death, but she was vaguely aware of Crecy and Hercule, shouting at her. She should save them, if she could, if it was possible. Gathering what remained of her strength, she grasped the two malakim as they struggled free of their prisons, held them where they were by sheer force of will.
The ship bucked again, and an iron clamp seemed to close on her arm. She understood suddenly that she was dangling in space. Crecy's face above her was a study in determination.
“Help yourself,” Crecy gasped. “My grip —”
Two globes would not support the ship, of course. Below her feet, the great river hurled by, and then a rushing green, closer each instant. She felt Crecy pull harder, screamed as her arm came out of the socket, and then she lost even her tenuous grip on the malakim. She suddenly had no weight, and she heard Crecy's shriek of despair come from far away. Then everything in the world broke. The ship, her bones, the air.
Red Shoes sagged against a tree, recovering his strength, watching the storm recede. Triumphant war whoops went up all along the river, and musket fire beat an unsteady tattoo. He fumbled out his pipe and Ancient Tobacco and lit it with one of his few remaining shadowchildren. He watched his hand shake, not believing that it was his own.
“Are you well?” Grief asked.
“No. I am not. I am not well. I—” He tried to stand, but it was suddenly too terrible, all of it.
“Kill me,” he groaned. “Kill me now, before I grow strong again. Before the power grows in me again.” Tears