I do not have time or patience to tell the whole story. All the time that I have wasted on writing, on friendship, on rest, has resulted in the death of one of our own.
A few days ago, I was accompanying Freya home after work. She was laughing about something, but I can no longer remember about what. I only remember the way that laugh cut off the moment she stepped into the house.
We both knew that something was wrong in that house—we felt it down to our souls. Freya froze just inside the door, and I had to force myself to move past her to investigate. I have never felt so sick and horrified, and that was before I saw what was on the kitchen wall, scrawled across the door and the cabinets.
“What?” Freya asked, her voice tight. “What is it?”
I could not speak. My voice was stolen away, my heart falling through the floor, my soul scraped out of me.
The words glowed, ghastly and burning in my eyes. Asoharith’s message was painted in light that screamed of pain and terror, torn from the soul of an angel.
She may not have suffered, but you will, Asa’el.
“Ace?” Freya called, creeping closer. She was shivering violently, as I would have been in her place. “Ace, what is it?”
I could not take my eyes off my own name, written in a sister’s blood.
And then Salathiel was there, her face taut with rage, and Freya choked and stepped back. Salathiel glanced at her and pushed me toward her. “Take her away from here,” she said.
Other Cherubs were descending now, and the noise of them was too much, so I urged Freya out of the house. I couldn’t explain, but thankfully she didn’t take too much persuading.
George answered the door, and despite the strangeness of Freya coming in with no bag, only her two cats in a carrier—for she wouldn’t leave them behind—he stepped back to let her in immediately. Kara came down the stairs and immediately went to pour Freya a glass of wine.
She was shaken but safe, and so I went back to speak to my seniors. Salathiel was gone when I returned, but Orison was there, his gaze black, and a trio of Gathers was standing in silence before the awful message.
“It’s certain, then,” Orison said. “Asoharith has become an Apostate.”
I wished I could vomit. I wish I could so easily cleanse myself of the poison that comes into me.
“They have identified the victim,” he went on, following my gaze to the motionless Gathers. “It was Haizea, who was one of their own.”
Another twist of agony. I knew Haizea. She was the first one to speak to me of grief. Was it her connection to me that caused her death?
I wanted to help, but I could not bear to watch the calmness of the Gathers. They did not cry, they did not wail—they simply stood there, wings curved around one another. What was the use of that?
At least my own brethren were ready to fight. Several of the other Cherubs have offered their help in hunting down Asoharith, and Salathiel has appointed me as the lead hunter, with Anathalie to advise.
“On the condition,” she said, fixing me with a cold eye, “that you go to explain to Freya first.”
“I can waste no time, Salathiel—”
“It was her home that was defiled,” Salathiel insisted, “and she deserves to know the truth.”
I was silent, rebellious. I did not want to tell Freya. I did not want to speak it aloud.
“Asa’el,” Salathiel said, her voice growing harsher, “you will do this, or you will be removed from the hunt.”
And so what could I do? I had to hunt.
I found Freya curled on the sleeper sofa in Kara’s office, trying to soothe her puzzled and frightened cats. She let them be, however, as soon as she felt me there. “Are you okay?” she asked. “What happened?”
I couldn’t say it. “What did you tell George and Kara?”
“Just that I had a weird feeling and didn’t want to be alone. Ace, please.”
Her fear was deepening, and so I had to give her something. I still couldn’t say it, though, so I went to the sleeping computer and stirred the mouse to brighten the screen.
Telling Freya made it worse, in a way. Seeing the way the knowledge went across her face, seeing it sink down in her and become fear—
I can’t do this. I wouldn’t have done it if Brid hadn’t insisted on it. She thought that writing it would make me feel better, but she was wrong. Trying to find words for this is just resulting in another failure.
So in short. Haizea is dead. Asoharith killed her. For that, I will find Asoharith and I will kill her. Freya is safe and will stay that way. That is my only comfort, and it does not change the fact that all of this is my fault. Nothing will ever change that.
I have to go. The hunt is waiting for me.