24.5

 

Astaroth raises one eyebrow – a curiously human gesture – and tuns his attention to her. She feels the world shift, as though his attention is a force that rearranges the hierarchy of everything it touches and now she feels it crawl across her like maggots over a corpse. She doesn’t feel a sense of judgement, for what fallen angel would have the hubris to make a judgment over anything? Rather, she feels his curiosity, his surprise at finding not one, but two horsemen in a dilapidated upstairs flat in Wolverhampton. “You haven’t taken on your mantle?”

“I was about to.” Roisin feels defensive despite the lack of judgement. “Then there was another one offered, and it distracted me.”

“As I knew it would.” Astaroth smiles. “Knowledge is the most powerful weapon of them all, and if you want to fight the angels, it would serve you better than the mantle of the Black Horse.”

“Would I be seen if I wore Knowledge?” Roisin glances at the Artist, but his expression is unreadable. “Would the seals still open?”

“I don’t know.” Astaroth chuckled. “Keeper of Knowledge I may be, but some secrets remain hidden.”

She glanced at Steve, but he’d been shaking his head through the whole of the conversation. “Would the mantle know?”

“You’d have to ask it.”

“You cannot.” The Artist stepped forward. “If you take a mantle other than your horse, you will not be Famine and the Four will remain incomplete. We will be unable to protect the world from the coming storm.”

“Protect the world?” Astaroth gives a half-incredulous laugh. “What’s this now? You would defy the purpose of your creation?”

“Have we not already?” The Artist formally known as Pestilence steps up to the doorway, casually brushing Steve to one side as easily as if he were a raincoat on a hallway peg. “We hid the Nephilim when they were condemned.”

“And now you’re letting them out again. You must want the world to end as much as they do.”

Roisin frowned. “They?”

“Those in the realm above.” Astaroth indicated with a finger, though the gesture was superfluous. “You know they will see the Children once they awaken. Perhaps they already have.”

“I have defeated one already.”

“Yes. I felt the dissolution of the imp when you withdrew its spirit. And now you have the spirit of the angel, too. How curious to see you becoming.”

“Becoming what?”

“Whatever you are now. You have more choices than your brothers were ever offered. To become Famine once more, to become Knowledge. To become the Destroyer of Angels.”

“Which ensures the continuation of the world?”

“Is that what you want?” Astaroth shakes his head, though his gaze never leaves her. “Did you put her up to this?”

“Me? No.” Steve holds up both hands as if he were proving the lack of a weapon before being shot. “I just helped her defend herself. I don’t want her to take it. I don’t want the seals to open.”

“Ah,” Astaroth says softly, leaning forward to stand. He moves with the fluid grace of a ballerina as he steps forward to inspect both Roisin and the Artist. “And you think her not taking the mantle will stop it?”

“Well, yes.” Steve, partially obscured by the two Horsemen, shakes his head. “You need the Four riders to precipitate the opening of the remaining seals.”

“You believe that, do you? Enough to bet your soul against?”

Roisin’s pulse stutters. She doesn’t know what he means but the Nephilim’s awareness tightens around her like a protective hand.

Astaroth’s head tilts as fast as a mantis to look at it. “You’ve chosen an interesting ally,” he says to the Nephilim. “Are you sure you can trust her?”

The Nephilim makes no change in its awareness but the horse inside its chest pulses once in a warning. It’s not afraid of the angel but it is wary of him.

Astaroth’s smile widens. “Oh, don’t bristle. I’m not here for your little rider.” His eyes flick back to Roisin. “I’m here for the one who summoned me.”

Steve flinches and Roisin makes a slight movement to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Artist, as if to protect him. She feels the Nephilim move with her, alert, questioning, probing. It still wants her to take the mantle, or at least make a link to it.

Astaroth raises a hand. “Careful, Roisin. You’re standing in two worlds at once. And if you take one more step, you might commit yourself to one side or the other and never again cross the path between them.”

Across the room Paul holds his breath, gripping the assistant’s hand as if they are taking strength from each other

Roisin’s heart pounds as the Nephilim’s awareness presses against her mind, a steady tether to the power of the mantle within it. Steve looks at her with terror and apology tangled in his eyes.

And Astaroth waits.