31.9

 

Astaroth looks up at her, holding her gaze while he continues. “Heaven cannot tolerate a Fifth. It cannot tolerate independent justice. It cannot tolerate a role it did not write.” His voice lowers; not into a whisper but entirely for emphasis. “And I will not let them erase you.”

Roisin’s voice breaks as she feels a tear spill from her eye and run down her cheek. “You killed God… for me?” She wipes away the dampness before it dries and leave a glittering salt trail like a slug from the land behind the mirrors.

Astaroth shakes his head. “No. I killed God because you gave me the opportunity. I didn’t actually expect to. I’ve spent two hundred years creating the exact condition to prove to Him that He was wrong to make the architecture so rigid. Just like the engineers of the nineteenth century learned that tall buildings in earthquake zones need to be able to cope with a little plate movement without falling over, I wanted to show that retaining such inflexibility among His creations would lead to a crashing down of his house of really solid bricks.”

“And instead of a negotiation you brought a bulldozer?”

“Something a little more elegant than that, but effectively, yes.” He stands, still holding her gaze, “and because the world deserves better than a script.” He gestures upward, but she knows he’s not referring to the ceiling — not physically, but cosmically.

“Now there is no Author. No Architect. No one holding the structure together. Yes, someone has taken over the mantle of Creation, but just because you’ve grabbed something, it doesn’t mean you know how to use it.”

As if on cue, the flat hums with instability. The walls flicker between substantiality and the void; the lights dim as the world outside turns from the dirty, pre-dawn glow to a brief glimpse of everything in flames. The air thickens until it becomes cloying with dense vapour, then so light that it’s difficult to catch their breath until it returns to normal.

Steve backs up, one hand touching the doorframe to give at least the illusion of stability. He glances upward, and Roisin can tell he’s wondering if his collection can help in any way. He looks across at the fallen angel. “Is the world… ending?”

Astaroth smiles faintly as he shakes his head. “No. The architecture is readjusting to the new reality. The old structure is being unwritten.”

The Nephilim clutches the mantle of Famine tighter. He speaks aloud, in the language he used before the time of Methuselah. Roisin hasn’t a clue what he said, because it wasn’t shared with her, but Astaroth nods slowly, closing his eyes for a moment until the world Roisin grew up in reestablishes itself. “That’s right. The mantles will seek a new anchor. A new centre. A new gravity, and Hasmed wants to be that centre.”

Roisin’s stomach drops. “He wants to become God?”

Astaroth’s eyes gleam. “Yes, but he can’t be. He’s fighting to control the mantle he has. Any chance of how he’ll fare against the Seraphim depends upon his ability to channel its abilities.”

“And do what?”

“You know well enough, Roisin. Justice is inserting toothpicks under the fingernails of possibilities. Knock them in far enough and you can avert the apocalypse. Or begin it. He wants to become the only rule, but whoever commands Creation will get the better odds.”

“What Happens Now?” Paul steps forward, looking between the others. “Surely there’s something you can do about it.”

Astaroth points at himself. “Me? I told you. I’m just a middleman. Effectively powerless in the grand scheme of things.”

Steve shakes his head. “Powerless? You’re the first person in forever who has managed to kill God.”

Astaroth holds up a hand and looks away. “That was just being in the right place at the right moment. History pivots on such things.” He turns to Roisin.

“You are mantleless. Unanchored. Unwritten.” He drops to one knee in front of her, as if to propose, but it is far from marriage that he proposes. “And that makes you the only being in existence who cannot be claimed by either side in the war to come.”

Roisin swallows. “What does that mean?”

Astaroth grips her hand in both of his own, staring into her eyes with absolute certainty. There are specks in the black orbs of his irises that pulse like scintillating soul fractals under the ultraviolet lights of an after-hours club. “You are the only one who can stop Hasmed and topple whoever has taken Creation.”

Namaan steps forward, the mantle of Famine pulsing in his hands. “And the mantles will choose you again. If you let them.”

Astaroth nods as the Nephilim speaks, despite the words being voiced without sound.