32.5

 

“Is she alright?” Steve nods toward the assistant who would look, to someone unable to see through the planes, like she was in a trance.

“She’ll be fine.” Roisin fixed her gaze onto the mortal plane and wondered if she was right to let the ghoul feed. She’d set boundaries. No killing, no over-feeding. Would she come to regret her decision? Only time would tell unless… She turned to Astaroth. “Can I see the future?”

“In broad terms, perhaps, so that you can pinpoint the moments where Creation changes paths, but only in broad strokes, and only those paths which already have a possible existence.”

“So I could see the results of a decision I made before I make it?”

The angel shakes his head, slowly. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“She wants to know if she can look at the Chance cards before she picks one up,” Steve laughs. “Like in Monopoly?”

Astaroth stares at him for a moment, and Roisin can tell he’s looking through Steve’s past to see what he’s referring to. The angel frowns and then laughs, returning his gaze to Roisin. “Cheating. You’re talking about cheating; bending the rules of Creation to suit your own purpose, becoming the falsehood Hasmed is so worried about.” He shrugs. “I do not know if you can look at the divergent paths. I cannot, but you are the Unmade. Who am I to say that you cannot do exactly that?”

Steve nods. “Cool. See the future, change the past.”

“I would warn you, though, that to see the future will fix it in place and whatever decision you make will twist into the future you saw.”

It’s Roisin’s turn to shake her head. “I don’t get it,” she says. “How can it become the future if I choose the very thing which doesn’t lead to the future.”

“The rules of Creation are complex.”

“Timey Wimey Twisty Wisties,” adds Steve. “I wrote twelve episodes of the longest-running show on British Television. Under an assumed name, of course.”

“Of course.” Roisin tips her head. She knows this is a lie, but she doesn’t want to call him to task, certainly not in front of Astaroth and Namaan. “So looking into the future is a no-go?”

“Only by opening the box do you solidify the outcome.” Steve shrugged. “While you keep the box closed, the cat remains both alive and dead in the same timeline.” He raised an eyebrow toward Astaroth. “Allegedly.”

“A fascinating man to bargain with, Schoedinger.” Astaroth raised his eyebrows as in recollection. Roisin could see the memory being played out as clearly as if it was being reenacted right in front of her. “Of course, what he really wanted was his cat back.” The angel laughed or at least pretended to laugh. She could see how much he had studied mortals over the last few thousand years and despite knowing the execution and timing of jokes to the point of mimicking the use of them almost perfectly, Roisin knew he had absolutely no concept of funny or sad, never having been granted such emotions. “Such a shame it hated him on its next life.”

“That was cruel.” Roisin gave him a level gaze. “You took advantage of his regret.”

“Of course. That’s what regret is for.” The angel flapped his hands, as if brushing away specks of dust from his robe. “It’s all in the nature of the game.”

“I’d think you’d be better suited to playing Monopoly.” Steve grinned.

“And I think I might enjoy speculating if you are alive or dead inside a box.” The angel gave a facsimile of a bright smile. His face creased into what was certainly pain. Roisin knew he felt pain, for she was experienced what felt like a shriek tearing through the planes, enough to alert the dead.

She pressed her hands against her ears, but the sound was inside her, threatening to tear her apart like two continental plates withdrawing from a friendly dame of drown-the-city. “What on earth is that?” She didn’t know if she was shouting, since the noise in her head overpowered all the noise outside of it. She glanced at Namaan, who had doubled over to tuck his head between his knees. She couldn’t even process the pose well enough to appreciate it, though she felt it highly likely she would reproduce it in a drawing or painting, if she was ever allowed to return to her art.

Gradually the sound faded, and Astaroth stopped grimacing, though the Nephilim continued to emit a low moan of agony. He took a few breaths, shaking his head. “Nothing on earth,” he said. “That was the sound of an angel screaming in anger.”

Roisin felt the colour drain from her face. “About what?”

“Either Hasmed has worked out what you’ve done,” he said, “Ot whoever has Creation, has noticed you.”