25.3

 

“Maybe.” Astaroth nods, his gaze distant as if he were running through a hundred different hypotheses with combinations of angels and crosses. It takes him long enough the Roisin is able to glance at Steve, who looks decidedly uncomfortable although, to his credit, he has stood his ground against the angel he summoned. After several seconds, Astaroth’s gaze returns to her face. “It would depend on the cross,” he says. “And the angel, obviously. Nothing would work against anything above the rank of Malak, and probably not even those, unless you had the alter cross from Cologne cathedral or St. Basil’s in Moscow.”

Steve spoke up. “Not one from the Vatican?”

Astaroth shrugged. “Fourth or fifth at best.” He pauses for a moment, as if running the crucifix blessed daily by the Pope against a number of angels before the consideration is dismissed. His attention returns to Roisin. “When you abandoned your mantle, the world did not lose Famine. It lost the anchor that kept the Four aligned.” He holds up one hand and, as if his hand is a movie screen, she sees images of whole nations of starving people that she recognises only from her human life, not from the memory of Famine that the Horse shared with her.

He smiles ruefully, watching her face as the knowledge passes into her through the new mantle. “All without your presence. But now, the world will correct itself. Through you.” He holds up both hands and shakes them like a magician after performing a trick. “Ta da!”

Roisin’s stumbles as the weight of all the deaths press upon her, but she feels the touch of the Nephilim as he steadies her, the burden dissipating into a mantle, though that of the horse or the Knowledge one she holds she cannot determine.

Astaroth watches the gesture, his eyebrow raised in what she can only think is surprise. “Ah. Yes. Of course it would protect you. Nephilim understand liminality better than anyone. They know what it is to be two things at once.” His brows drop as he gestures to her. “As do you, now that you’re becoming the hinge between worlds.”

Roisin’s voice is barely a whisper. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Astaroth’s pulls back his lips in a parody of sympathy. It reminds her of her mother’s neighbours when her father disappeared. They’d knock of the door with a casserole dish of something heartening and pretend to be concerned and sympathetic, when really all they wanted was to see what sort of woman would drive her husband away. It’s always the woman’s fault, in the eyes of churchgoers, and their smiles of sympathy only masked their judgement, not hid it entirely. “No one asks to become what they were already destined to be.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You were never meant to remain human, but you were never meant to reclaim the mantle of Famine again, either. You were raised to be exactly what you are now; the angel of Justice that stands between them all.

He lifts her chin gently — not touching her, but guiding her gaze upward with the barest motion of his hand. “Look at the Nephilim.”

The creature brought forth from her drawing of charcoal and paint, and fleshed out by the skill of the Artist, stares down at her, its eyes brimming with liquid. Its mouth moves in what she thinks is meant as a kindly smile, and she sees reverence displayed in the tilt of its head. It no longer feels threatening, despite its height, but exudes a sense of stability and comfort. If she were still mortal she would do anything to make this beauteous creature happy This, she realises, is why the Nephilim are so dangerous. They could inspire the devotion of nations.

Astaroth’s voice is a whisper behind her. “It knows what you are becoming. It has seen your shape before, though long ago.”

Roisin’s breath catches in her throat as she turns to look the angel in the eye. “What shape?”

Astaroth smiles. “The shape of the one who speaks when the Four cannot. The shape of the one who stands when the world tilts and remembers the laws of balance” He steps back, giving her space. “You are not a rider. You are not Famine, doomed to temper and harden souls for collection.” He bows his head slightly, as though acknowledging a truth older than himself. “You are the Fifth, the fulcrum, the hinge.”

His eyes gleam and in his smile, she can see the fury of angels preparing for war.

“You are the one thing the world cannot survive without.”