Chapter 9

If the earth ever split and swallowed anyone, now would be a great time.

I just snarked an archangel. The most powerful being in the angeldamned universe. To his heavenly face no less. When I should be groveling at his feet—or something to that effect.

In lieu of a gaping abyss, I get Godric. He strides back toward me with a glower that could microwave an elephant in two seconds flat.

But instead of forcing me to prostrate myself in abject apology, he stops before me, giving me his back.

If I didn’t know better, I would think he’s putting himself between me and that mini-squadron of Armageddon.

Whatever his reason, he’s giving me a very effective barricade to hide behind. I’ll take that.

“Father, Uncles, I present you with the criminal human who calls herself Walter White.”

Rubbing the itch his voice has created behind my breastbone, my mind latches onto how he addressed them. Like family, but like superiors, too. Like they’re some sort of army.

Of course they are. The Army of Heaven.

And Uncles, huh? This makes sense. All the angels are supposed to be siblings of a sort. Especially the higher ups. They came into existence together or something.

It’s not surprising I didn’t make the connection at once. It’s a wonder I can think at all. Anything lucid and logical, that is.

I can think plenty that’s hysterical and suicidal, though. Like wanting to charge them, paw their clothes and wings and see what they’re made of. The urge is almost as powerful as the pull of this place, that burning need to know what I feel should never be known.

Thankfully, Godric’s blockade of muscle and feathers stops me from acting on any potentially fatal compulsion.

Of course, the moment I get comfy behind him, he moves aside.

I find out why when Raphael beckons, his gesture and voice the personification of tranquil, terrifying immortality.

“Come forward, human.”

Every muscle in my body locks. I’m not afraid per se. I think. Yet everything in me rebels against approaching these beings.

Godric feels very human compared to them. They are totally—alien. Yet—familiar?

Yes. So achingly, maddeningly familiar.

It’s probably some sort of racial memory, a genetic faculty that always detected the presence of angels. Maybe it’s what spawned all those beliefs and religions.

I realize I always felt similar if much weaker feelings towards the other angels. They were only overshadowed by envious, impotent loathing.

But why don’t they just lasso me like Godric did?

“You’ll have to approach of your own free will, child.” That’s Gabriel, as if he heard my thoughts. Which he probably did.

I find myself scoffing. “Too late to pretend to care about free will, after Godawful yanked me all the way here on a leash.”

The air sizzles at my back. Aww, I’m embarrassing him in front of his family? Tough. That name of his is a gold mine of potential insults. Ones I bet no one ever made use of.

I intend to rectify that missed opportunity while I have the chance.

The archangels stare at me, but I get the impression they’re conferring mentally. They probably never had anyone talk back to them. Or talk at all in their presence, not unless ordered to.

Now would be a great time to shut up, Wen.

But whatever brakes I had left have snapped. All I can hope is that my runaway mouth doesn’t deepen the hole they’ll bury me in.

As if coming to a consensus, Michael addresses me, pointing to the ground ten feet away from their table. “You need to stand amidst our symbols.”

Either my senses are so scrambled I didn’t notice them before, or they just appeared. Five runic symbols floating two feet above the iridescent floor, each the size of a suitcase. They seem to be made of some sentient energy, each with a different hue.

Eyeing them with hot and cold currents zapping through my spine, I rasp, “Is this some kind of angelic—sorry, archangelic compulsion field or something?”

“Never compulsion,” Raphael says, even calmer than his brothers, but as hair-raising. “You will answer our questions of your full volition. Our—field will only determine if you answer truthfully.”

Onlythat? And what? This celestial lie detector will tase me and lengthen my nose at every untruth?

Probably something far worse.

Fine. There are ways of not telling the truth without lying.

I finally move, feet feeling like concrete blocks that will crack under me at any moment.

At the eerie, rotating pentacle, I stop. I don’t see how I can step in their middle, especially in my sluggish state, without one bumping into me.

I don’t want to know what would happen if one does. This frail human flesh can’t be made for contact with archangelic runes as old as time.

Pondering my dilemma comes to an abrupt end. My feet are lifting off the ground!

Panic doesn’t have time to register before I’m dumped in the center of the pentacle.

The moment my feet slam to the ground, I pitch to the side, and throw up. This time over one of those exquisite, glowing symbols. The grey one.

As the wave of nausea recedes, a guttural rumble thrums down my back, like a fed-up lion about to strike. I know it’s Godric.

He’s had it with me spewing my disgusting human secretions all over his angelic boots and domain? Poor monster.

Welcome to the fine art of passive aggression, asshat.

Even if mine was involuntary so far. I’m starting to feel like one of these frogs that pee when you grab them.

Let’s hope sullying their sacred symbol alone isn’t punishable by torment for eternity.

But a glance around tells me it’s only Godric who’s mad at me. And from the way I was spilled inside the circle, it was him who did it. He isn’t big on free will like his dad and uncles.

In contrast to his contempt, the archangels are regarding me with an impassiveness that feels as endless as their existence. I hope they have a corresponding sense of forgiveness.

Not that I understand why they may find me worthy of punishment in the first place.

And for the first time since Godric descended on me like the Son of Death that he is, I ask myself the question: How can my small-potato business selling Angelescence be a crime worthy of a fate worse than death and/or damnation?

What’s going on here?

“Shall we proceed, Ms. White?” This is Raphael, voice now a lulling melody.

“We shall,” Mr. Grim Reaper Jr. answers for me, his abrasion blowing away Raphael’s soothing effect. “Starting by having her tell us her real name.”

I toss him a glare. “My name is White.” Not a lie. Weiss is White in German. It was the name of the man who dug me out of the burning rubble. They made it mine in that orphanage. I just translated it when everyone kept misspelling or mispronouncing it.

A corner of his masterpiece lips lifts in a sneer. Strange how he’s showing far more emotion in the presence of his emotionless family. “Is your name also Walter?”

“Haven’t you heard that gender-specific names are a thing of the past, or are you still stuck in pre-apocalyptic times?”

“Answer the question, Ms. White,” he says, his eyes promising creative punishments later.

But wanting to spite him is only a part of my reluctance to answer. I mainly loathe my name. It’s the one thing I have of the mother I don’t remember. The mother who abandoned me. Yet another reason to hate the damned woman.

That name was inside the antique locket with that big, iridescent gemstone I was found wearing. On the other side was an obscure picture of her holding infant me. I remember it so clearly, even when I never saw it again after that day. But I still have its shape stamped on my chest. It got so hot in the fire it gave me yet another brand. To add insult to injury, my so-called mother saddled me with the name Gwendolyn.

No one ever used that mouthful, and no two people ever called me the same thing. I was Gwen and Wendy and Winnie and Lyn and Lynnie. I was Whelp to Zeral and Wench to Kondar.

But Sarah calls me Wen, and that makes it my name.

“Wen,” I finally mutter.

The imposing wings of his eyebrows rise. “When?”

“W-E-N.” I barely catch back Angelass. Not advisable to mouth off—more than I already did—in the presence of those godly beings.

Strange how I can do it so easily with him, when I feel he’s on the same level of power. Or weirdly, even more.

His eyebrows descend. “What kind of name is Wen?”

“Not a pompous ass one as Godric, that’s for sure,” I shoot back, my resolution of a second ago forgotten.

As we glare at each other, as if coming between us this time, Azrael says, “Tell us about your exploits as Walter White, Wen White.”

His son doesn’t leave it at that. “Don’t leave out any details, no matter how insignificant. If you do so, we will resort to far more invasive—and damaging—methods to extract them.”

“I thought you said free will!” I exclaim.

“They did,” Godric growls.

So he operates with a different set of rules? He did say something to that effect to that unfortunate Caius. And he calls the archangels “they.” So who are the “we” he meant? His kind? The Nephilim?

Those are supposed to be half-human. It’s what makes them so terrible. Regular humans have some disturbing proclivities, making them capable of unimaginable atrocities. Add that to the power and entitlement of angels, and you have a unique, and unpredictable kind of monster.

And I continue to antagonize the apex predator of that species. The one who’ll probably execute my sentence. Or execute me. Or worse.

Brilliantstrategy.

I’ll deal with that self-destructive streak he provokes later. If there’s a later. He more or less said his gang of demi-angelic monsters can excise info from my mind, mutilating it in the process.

That perfect sadist is giving me the choice. To maim or not to maim.

Predictably, I go for keeping my mind, such as it is, intact.

Drawing a fractured breath into lungs that may never expand again, I begin, “It all started in the alley behind my apartment building…”

“We’re not interested in the origin story of your descent into crime,” Godric cuts me off. “Tell us how you obtain Angel Essence.”

“Hang on to your feathers, will ya? It’s not like I want to prolong this interrogation.” Then his words sink in my scrambled mind. “Wait—it’s called Angel Essence for real? I thought I was being clever when I came up with Angelescence—as a play on essence and luminescence, since it glows after I…”

“Enough. You will cease your rambling or I...” He stops. I’m in time to see Azrael swiping him a glance. With an almost imperceptible nod, Godric bunches his jaw muscles and repeats his question. “How do you obtain Angel Essence?”

“AsI was saying, one night I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out onto the fire escape to get some air—such as it is in L.A.—and saw an angel and a demon fighting right below me. The angel made short work of the demon, and it was the first time I saw for myself how vicious—uh, I mean how powerful angels are, even the run-of-the-mill kind like that one was. Good thing, huh? Since you’re the good guys, and we want the good guys to be stronger than the bad guys...”

Stop. Rambling.

That obsidian lightning, that almost had me peeing myself when I first saw it, is brewing in Godric’s eyes. I might provoke him into striking me down even against his family’s wishes, just to get rid of my aggravation.

I rush to continue, “Anyway, after the angel disposed of the demon’s carcass in a dumpster, he flew off, and I saw something trailing from him, but most of it lingered below me. I wasn’t getting any sleep anyway, so I went down to investigate—and it was the strangest thing. Like a hologram or some form of visible energy. It seemed at once alive, and as if it didn’t exist, not in this world. Does this make any sense?”

They only continue boring into me with a focus I’m sure could denude my flesh from my bones, if they wished it to.

Forcing down another rising gulp of bile, I go on, “Though it looked intangible, I felt compelled to touch it. I reached up my hand—and it slithered to cover it. I can’t even describe how it felt. The consistency, I mean. Sort of like it wasn’t there, yet was the most there thing I ever touched. Not that I could decipher any texture or temperature, it just—was. Then suddenly, it started burning until I thought it would dissolve my hand right off. I almost fainted before the pain suddenly stopped—and my hand was intact.

“Though I was relieved it was only phantom pain, I wanted this thing off me, in the worst way. But I couldn’t wipe it off on my clothes, or against the building. So I ran back up, but couldn’t wash it off, or dissolve it with alcohol, and even holding my hand over the gas-burner did nothing. And I could feel this thing trying to seep into my skin. I got so frustrated, so angry, so spooked, I was willing to do anything to get it off me. Anything.

“I picked up a knife, intending to scrape my skin off if need be—but this time it started coming off, as if it didn’t want me to go this far. Which can’t be true, right?” No answer comes again, so I sigh. “I don’t know why I didn’t flush it down the drain, but the moment I scraped it into a jar, its faint bluish glow intensified, and it pooled at the bottom. Not level like a liquid, but sort of ebbing and flowing, and I had a feeling it was—upset, sulking even. Which had to be my imagination going haywire.” I look at Godric. “Enough details for you?”

He gives a grave nod of his majestic head. “Proceed.”

How very formal.

I bite my lip before I sneer that he sounds like some overacting character in a Victorian drama. This demi-archangel is really plucking my bitchy strings wholesale.

But how can I “proceed” without mentioning Sarah? I have to protect her, without lying. Those runes are circling me like sharks, and may strike me with angelic death rays or something if I lied. Even worse, Godric may scour my mind clean.

I inhale a shallow, bolstering breath. “Next morning, I woke up to find the roommate I had at the time high as a kite.” There. The truth, with a dash of casual misdirection. “I might have thought she was trying some drug—” What Sarah would never do. “—if not for the weird energy crackling from her eyes and fingers. I freaked out at first, but she was laughing and looking at her hands in wonder.

“That sparking lasted for a couple of hours, but the high lasted way longer. She was so blissed out, I had to stand in for her at her work.” And had a double-feature flogging from Kondar for missing mine. “When it was over, she told me it made her feel free, invincible—rapturous. Then it was beyond terrible when the heavenly experience ended. It was this comment that made me realize what happened, especially when she said she made her PBJ sandwich with the knife I scraped that stuff with.

“To make sure, I took as much—and nothing happened. A little more, then even more, and still nothing. I figured having my hand soaked in it made me resistant to its effects. So she tried it again, and the same thing happened. But now she knew what was happening, she said the euphoria was more ‘out of this world.’ No surprise there, right? By then I figured that energy goo was some sort of angelic secretion, so it really came straight from Heaven.”

I stop, hoping this is enough to answer Godric’s question.

It clearly isn’t, since he commands tersely, “Continue.”

I sigh heavily. “Betting people would pay good money for this heavenly high, I did a test run. But right out the gate, I hit a snag, since it was the first time I dealt drugs.” I glower pointedly at Godric.

As he stares back at me, a sliver of that hungry savagery slips through his severe facade. I tear my gaze from his toward the archangels. That freezes any wayward reactions solid.

I grit my teeth as I remember that “snag.”

Right after I got my enchanted bottle, my first clients were a couple of Regulars who came to Demonica to score vampire blood or any other drug, no matter how unknown or unpredictable. I was so wet behind the ears I sold each a 2ml vial. In person. And without thinking what would happen once the Angelescence was in their possession.

One walked out with it in his pocket, and got torn limb from limb by demons, who then killed each other for it. The other took it all in one go, got so high, he believed he could fly. He leaped off the roof, and crashed to his death. Five minutes after my first sale I ended up with a blood bath right in front of Demonica’s doors.

I was so rattled, felt so guilty, I decided not to sell any more. But then I heard of a demon who was promising the Owned he’d kill our masters and free us from our Indentures, for a fee.

So I rationalized those guys’ death, that as addicts, they would have overdosed sooner or later. And though I felt like crap, I decided to deal again.

But before I did, our demons ganged up on that demon. His severed head graced one of the largest squares in the Demon Zone, until birds picked his rotting flesh clean off his skull.

Not that this plan’s gruesome death deterred me. The hope of getting out had taken root and I wouldn’t rest until I found another way.

I thought I found it when I heard about a new coven operating out of Skid Row. They claimed they removed any curse, including Marks. But Sarah refused pointblank. Since I trust her gut instincts above anything else, I investigated further. And she was right, as usual.

From my sources deep within the sewers of the Supernatural Underworld, I found out that the ritual is either fatal, or leaves you a vegetable. The kicker was that the side-effects aren’t immediate, and it works perfectly at first. That’s how they built a reputation in each area they set up shop in. Desperate people flocked to them, they made a fortune, then they disappeared before the bodies started dropping.

After many dead ends, I was down to our last option. Theoretically, an Owned can buy themselves back from their Owners, at the price set during the initial ritual. That provision has never been applied in real life. What Owned could make money, let alone dare approach their demons to demand that so-called “right”?

It seemed impossible for us, too. Our Indentures were set at a million bucks a head, and I didn’t even know if I could get more Angelescence to sell. Even if I did, and amassed that sum, I couldn’t approach our demons with it. They would have forced me to make them that kind of money for the rest of my life. It would have guaranteed we’d never be free.

But as it was our only hope, I borrowed a copy of the Accords with a stolen library card. We alternated poring over the Laws of Indenture, hoping to find some loophole. After all, every law, mortal, immortal or even divine has one.

And Sarah found it. Among the endless subclauses and mind-numbing legalese, large enough to squeeze us both through. A binding provision that could guarantee our freedom.

Turns out in the event a Demon-Owned produces the Indentura Pretium, literally the indenture price, an Owner must accept it, and write in their own blood the Pactum Exolvo, or the pact of release. Any attempt to take the money and not grant it, or to renege on the Pactum in any way, would reverse the infernal magic fueling the Mark, resulting in the demon’s agonizing death, and the stigmatization of his line.

Once I was secure all that stood between us and freedom was money, I began to deal in earnest. But to avoid more deaths on my conscience, I issued strict directions in each transaction, about the method of use, probable side effects and adverse reactions, and limited the dose I sold to 1ml.

I would have made it less after it proved too much for many clients when taken at once. But that was the least amount I could separate from the mass. And they were the ones who disregarded my warnings, and paid the price. There was nothing more I could do.

And then I figured I was no worse than those Big Pharma companies. They tell you the drug that might help alleviate your symptoms, even when taken in the correct therapeutic dose, could drive you to suicide or make you drop dead.

Not that my angelic captors need to know any of that.

But since six pairs of eyes that could turn me to Wen-flavored powder are trained on me, I give them the abbreviated version. “After extensive investigation, I found out there’s nothing like my product on the drug scene, or the thriving black market that deals in anything angelic.” Godric makes that sound great felines make before pouncing again. I raise my eyebrows at him. “You didn’t know this existed?”

“We know everything.”

“Not everything, since I’m here to tell you things you don’t know…” Another rumble makes my heart rev like a hummingbird. “Aaand I’m shutting up now.”

“You will keep talking,” Godric grits out. “And keep to the relevant facts.”

“Yeah, right. Relevant. Where was I? Oh, yes, after realizing I had a unique product, I raised the price, and clients still fought over it. So after many price hikes, I sold that jar for a sum of money I never thought I’d see if I lived a hundred lifetimes.”

“When did you finish that jar?” Godric bites off.

“Within the first month...” I stop, the cold fire of dread drenching me.

Now he’d want to know how I got more.

If I had any hope he wouldn’t, his next words blast it away. “How have you been getting Angel Essence ever since?”

I want to kick myself in the head for my slip up. Now if I don’t give him a satisfactory answer, he’d delight in extracting it out of it with mental pliers.

I exhale in resignation. “I worked out that angels exude this substance when they exert themselves, or when they’re agitated or angry. So I started ambulance-chasing them.”

The archangels stare at me blankly. Gotta ease up on the vernacular.

From his lip twist, it’s clear Godric doesn’t need a translation. I still provide one for his bosses. “I mean I began following angels, hoping for more clashes with demons, so I could collect their—er, Essence afterward. But since you have the Accords and all, I couldn’t catch another angel in the act. So I monitored the angels who frequent the places I go to, then planned something that would anger them, so I could—uh, you get the picture.”

Again, I get the impression the archangels are conferring mentally. But this time I can sense their reactions. They seep into my marrow like acid.

Confusion. Calculation. Disinterest. Dismay. Dread.

But how could these emotions be emanating from them? A better explanation is they’re my own. I am at a total loss why they’re treating this whole thing with such gravity.

I never considered I was doing something that bad. I wasn’t even breaking any law. Even if I was, many of the human or angelic laws are messed up, and breaking them wouldn’t make me a bad person. Not evil, anyway. I dealt only to adults, most already addicts.

So many got hurt or even died, but I gave them ample warnings. Also, being Indentured has a way of setting your priorities for you. And then, I was doing it only until I got us out of Hell on Earth.

So yes, what I did was morally grey—okay, dark grey—but what isn’t in this world? Especially my world?

And who are they to judge morality, the beings who killed hundreds of millions of my kind?

But their involvement is a plot twist, as Lorcan said. I went to extreme lengths to avoid exposure to humans and demons. I never even considered the angels themselves.

Why would freaking archangels and their even scarier enforcer care about me gathering angelic perspiration? Or that I made money selling the stuff? A life-changing sum for me and Sarah, but not even pocket change to them?

What am I not getting here?

Next second, everything inside me, in the world, ceases.

The archangels are getting to their feet, their wings rising above them in a heart-rending sweep of unearthly menace.

Whatever they do next will dictate my fate.

In a voice as inexorable as the death he dealt, it’s Azrael who delivers my sentence. “Wen White, until we determine the scope of your unprecedented offense, and discover the exact method with which you committed it, we hereby conscript you to Celestial Academy.”

“No!”