Small Miracles, page 20
“Ah,” said Gadriel. “I see.” She rubbed at her face with a sigh. “All right—we’ll just have to go after her.”
Holly started for the front doors—but her face was gloomy and uncertain. “The bus doesn’t run that often here during the evenings,” she said. “It’s going to take… longer than I’d like.”
Gadriel paused with her fingers still pinched at the bridge of her nose. Gradually, she looked back up at Holly.
It’s not like I’ve got anything left to lose, she thought.
Gadriel closed the distance between them. Very slowly, she reached up to cup her palms against Holly’s face—then leaned down to press her lips against her forehead.
In that moment, time stilled. Silence flooded in as Gadriel reached tentatively for the world around her—for all of the beautiful, confusing chaos there, jumbled together like snagged thread.
Her facility with miracles was rusty, to say the least. But as she opened her awareness up to creation, she remembered the soft thrum of its heartbeat and the comforting way that it all connected up to… Something.
That Something regarded Gadriel back—both utterly distant and incomprehensibly personal, all at once.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Gadriel mumbled to it self-consciously. “I’m just visiting. This won’t be a habit.”
The Something waited patiently. It had all of the time in the world, after all.
Gadriel reached out carefully for one of the threads of chaos, tugging at it gently. Several connected threads straightened themselves out, unknotting slightly from the tangle. Gadriel squinted at the new pattern, trying to gauge her work.
“That’s… not half bad,” she admitted. “I’m still all right with the little things, aren’t I?”
The Something smiled fondly.
“Ooh, stop that,” Gadriel warned it. “Don’t you smile at me. I’m still upset with you, just so you know. This is a onetime thing.”
The strands closest to Gadriel shivered with approval. The sensation was something like being patted on the head—if one’s head were one’s soul and the one doing the patting was the whole of creation itself.
Gadriel grumbled and released the strands. But the gesture had left behind a tiny, wistful warmth in her heart that she couldn’t quite scrub away, no matter how she tried.
Time resumed—and Holly Harker blinked up at her. A faint flush had overcome the apples of her cheeks, where Gadriel held her face.
“Go wait for the bus,” Gadriel murmured to her. “It would only take a small miracle for it to arrive so soon, you know.”
Holly blinked several times more. “You’re not coming with me?” she asked, with a sudden note of panic.
Gadriel shook her head. “I need to fetch something before I go,” she said. “And besides… I’m going to take a shortcut. Maybe I’ll manage to get there sooner.” Either way, I can’t fly you there with me, Gadriel thought.
Holly hesitated visibly. Gadriel dropped her palms from her cheeks and squeezed her hands.
“Your bus is outside, Holly Harker,” she said softly. “Go and catch it. I’ll meet you there—I promise.”
1 +1 Point of Sin (Holly Harker): A Mean-Spirited Comment.
2 +1 Point of Sin (Holly Harker): Speaking Ill of the Dead. +1 Point of Sin (Holly Harker): A Mean-Spirited Comment. +1 Point of Sin (Holly Harker): An Emotional Threat.
3 +1 Point of Sin (Holly Harker): A Mean-Spirited Comment.
4 No spirit, benevolent or otherwise, has any power over atheists. Atheists are therefore the bogeymen of the metaphysical world, spoken of in hushed, terrified tones by divine beings everywhere.
5 Unlike most fallen angels, Gadriel had dabbled at least briefly in comparative religion. He was therefore aware that the Hindu concept of karma does not technically come into play until one dies and is reborn. Being an immortal fallen angel, he was therefore not subject to karma.
He was subject to poetic justice, however—and especially to ghost peppers.
6 God may show mercy, but capsaicin does not.
CHAPTER 23
CUMULATIVE SIN METRIC (HOLLY HARKER): -912
CUMULATIVE SIN METRIC (ELLA HARKER): +228.65
Blue Ridge Cemetery had a single large gate. Behind it, endless rows of gravestones were closely packed, all doing their best to tread on one another’s toes.
The last bit of light in the sky was nearly gone by the time Gadriel found Ella Harker, tucked right between the graves for Ian Gilmore and Lara Burton. She’d settled herself on the ground before a gravestone marked ‘Ivy Harker’, with her knees pulled up to her chest. An evening chill had started creeping in at the edges, and her faux leather jacket seemed inadequate to the job of staving it off, if her shivers were anything to go by.
Wormwood stood calmly behind her, surveying the grave with a contented smile on his red-stained lips. Back-lit by the last rays of the setting sun, it was easier to see all four of his shadowy wings spread out before him, casting their darkness upon the girl and the grave.
The sight sparked an old, weary sadness in Gadriel’s chest. There’s enough misery out here already, she thought. What sort of creature takes pleasure in adding to it?
She tucked the thought away, along with the remnants of her two ragged wings, and made herself quietly visible.
“You probably should have brought a blanket,” Gadriel said, as she approached Ella. “Mind you… I probably should have brought a blanket. I’m just realising that.”
Ella snapped her head around, staring at Gadriel. “How did you find me?” she asked incredulously.
Gadriel smiled wryly. “I used my magical powers,” she said. “Those, and a mediocre understanding of modern technology.”
Wormwood shook his head with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, Gadriel,” he said. “You just won’t stop buzzing until you get swatted.”
Gadriel ignored him, padding over to stand next to Ella. The cold shadow of Wormwood’s wings closed over Gadriel, and she shivered violently. “I did say you could come and talk with me,” she continued, as casually as she could manage. “It would have been a bit warmer in the office. But that’s all right—I’m here to annoy you, regardless.”
Wormwood leaned forward. “She thinks she knows what’s best for you,” he said. “She’s going to drag you back and force you to be a good girl.”
Ella tightened her arms around her legs. “I don’t want any chocolate,” she said flatly. “And I definitely don’t want any lectures.”
Gadriel sat down beside her. “You’re sure?” she said. “Absolutely positive? Because I’ve got a fantastic lecture about the Greek Cynics. Puts people to sleep in ten minutes flat. And on top of that…”
She offered out a crumpled bit of foil, several times the size of her fist.
Ella knit her brow. “What is that?” she asked.
“A bribe,” Wormwood murmured. “More chocolate, probably.”
Gadriel unwrapped the foil to reveal a single, very wretched-looking red velvet cupcake.
“It is technically chocolate,” she admitted. “But I hear it’s your favourite.”
Ella stared at the cupcake.
“You don’t want a bloody cupcake,” Wormwood hissed. “A cupcake isn’t going to fix any of this.”
His voice this time was harsh and overwhelming. It fell upon the world around them like a yawning void, dragging down everything in its path. It was a statement of horrible finality—a promise that terrible things were just around the corner, and nothing in the universe would ever be able to stop them.
Gadriel swallowed thickly. “You only get half,” she added in a small voice. “It’s the last cupcake, and I didn’t get to try any. But I owe you for the half a biscuit, so this makes us square.”
The shadows shivered around them. The messy cupcake looked terribly pathetic, in comparison to the colourless world around it.
But somehow—very slowly—Ella reached out with trembling fingers to pinch off a bit of cake and icing.
She stuffed the bite into her mouth, licking the icing off her fingers with a fresh sniffle.
Wormwood stared at her. “You didn’t even tempt her,” he whispered incredulously. “What is going on?”
Gadriel slid an arm around Ella’s shoulders, tugging her against her side. “I’ve lost a lot of people, you know,” she said softly. “I know how it feels, more than anyone.”
Ella’s jaw trembled. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth—but Gadriel cut her off.
“You’re sitting in the dark in the middle of a graveyard,” she pointed out reasonably. “Are you really going to tell me this has nothing to do with your mum?”
Ella closed her mouth again.
Gadriel sighed. “I’ve been avoiding it too,” she said. “I’m a champion avoider at this point. I use the small pleasures as distractions, to help me forget all of the things I miss.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “It mostly works, you know. But only when I don’t look too closely.”
Ella swallowed a soft whimper, leaning into Gadriel’s side. Her makeup left black, winding tears down her cheeks. “I keep… thinking I’m all right,” she said in a tight voice. “I’m so convinced that I am. And then it’s suddenly not true, and I need her.”
Wormwood’s shadows tightened around them.
“She’s never coming back,” he said. “You can’t have her.”
Gadriel took a shuddering breath. “You can’t have her,” she agreed softly. “And she… she can’t help you. I’m sure she’d want to, if she knew you needed it. But she’s… asleep. She’s in the next room over, dreaming.”
She set the cupcake on the ground in front of them, and settled both her arms more fully around Ella.
“She’ll wake up someday,” Gadriel whispered. “And when she does… she’s going to want to hear all about what you were up to while she was sleeping.”
Ella buried her face in Gadriel’s knitted vest with a hiccuping cry.
Gadriel held her close, in the shadow of Wormwood’s wings. She gathered up every last scrawny bit of her power, shoving it into her inside voice. And when she spoke, she reached for the little things in Ella’s mind: for six months of awkward tray bakes and attempted conversations and tentative hugs. For the knowledge that every last red velvet cupcake really belonged to her, because her aunt (who hated chocolate herself) knew that Ella loved red velvet cupcakes. For the simple day-to-day certainty that although Holly Harker was very bad at this indeed, she would always, always show up.
And what Gadriel said was: “You are loved, Ella Harker. And you are not alone.”
The statement burrowed deeply into Ella’s heart. It joined with the awful, wrenching grief that had taken residence there, nestling itself firmly against the chill fear of loneliness and death which now would never leave. It was not a victory—not by any means. But it was a fond little candle against the darkness—and no matter how Wormwood clawed for it, Gadriel knew that it would never fully go out.
“Oh thank god!” Holly’s voice carried across the graveyard, echoing against the tombstones. She crossed the final distance to Ella and Gadriel, sprinting breathlessly. Her hair was loose and hopelessly tangled; her modest attempt at eyeliner was smudged from crying. She fell to her knees next to them both, snatching Ella from Gadriel’s grasp and hugging her tightly.
“I’m so s-sorry,” Holly sobbed. “I said all of those awful things, and I—I don’t know how to undo any of it. I didn’t mean it, Ella, I promise. I’m not going to leave you behind, not ever.”1
“She’s lying,” Wormwood hissed frantically. “She’ll lose her temper again, as soon as something else happens.”
But Ella hugged her aunt back every bit as tightly, ignoring her misgivings.
“I n-never know what to say to you,” Holly choked out. “I always get it wrong. That’s not your fault, any of it. I just get so scared that I can’t help you, and everything will just keep getting worse because I don’t know what to do—”
Ella shook her head. “It’s okay, Aunt Holly,” she rasped. “I say awful things to you all the time. And I… I want to take those things back too.” She closed her eyes. “I’ve been horrible, and I know it. I just… don’t know how to stop.”2
Holly nodded mutely, forcing herself to breathe. “We’ll figure it out, okay?” she said softly. “All of it. One step at a time.”
Ella gave a watery smile. “One day at a time,” she mumbled. “Or… however you say it in French.”
Gadriel rose unsteadily back to her feet. Wormwood had fallen silent—but she could feel his fury pressing in upon her like a vice. The shadows that made up his wings twisted violently around him; his flat, serpentine eyes glittered with barely suppressed malevolence.
Gadriel pressed a hand to Holly’s shoulder and squeezed. Holly glanced up at her, blinking away tears.
“I have come to a decision,” Gadriel told her quietly. “I have decided… that I am going to fall in love with both of you. Right now, actually.” She offered Holly a worried smile. “I have to go take care of something, because of that. But I won’t be far.”
Holly wiped at her eyes one-handed. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s… very lovely.” And though Gadriel hadn’t used her inside voice at all, she rather thought that a little candle had lit itself in Holly Harker’s heart as well. “I think I’ll fall in love with you too,” Holly said shyly. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
Gadriel shook her head. Despite the dark, looming figure behind her, she couldn’t help the small smile that crept across her lips. “Please,” she said. “Go right ahead.”
She released Holly’s shoulder, and headed away from the two women, into the deepening darkness. Within a few steps, she allowed her visibility to fall away, so that she and Wormwood could face one another directly.
“You haven’t won anything, you little divine smudge stain,” Wormwood said simply. “I have endless time. I’ll stay with them both like a lead anchor. Eventually, I’ll weigh them down.”
Gadriel nodded reasonably. “I know,” she said. “Even if I stay and fight and win against you every day, they’ll both eventually end up in the ground here—or somewhere like it.”
Wormwood closed the distance between them. He reached out to grasp Gadriel’s chin, resting pointed nails against the skin of her cheeks. His dead green eyes bored into hers.
“You will lose everything you love,” he whispered. “I will make sure of it.”
Gadriel felt the words deep in her bones. They were awful words, because they were so very true.
But she had struggled with them now for more than a thousand years… and finally, she had an answer for them.
“I’m sure you think it ought to matter that everything will end eventually,” Gadriel said. “You have to think that. It’s your job.” She summoned up her courage and met Wormwood’s dreadful gaze.
“Someday, the whole world will end,” she told him. “On that day, you’ll streak across the sky like a comet, and everyone will look at you and despair.” She reached up to close her hand around Wormwood’s wrist, pulling his hand from her face. “But creation wasn’t made just to despair, Wormwood. There’s an awful lot that’s still going to happen between now and that last, dreadful moment. There are small lives being lived, and small triumphs being had, and small people enjoying their favourite red velvet cupcakes. And all of those small things still have meaning, even if they someday have to end.”
Gadriel smiled at the Third Calamity. “Those small things all belong to me. I have decided to fall in love with them again—and you can’t have them.”
Wormwood smiled back coldly. “That is still up for debate,” he said. “You can’t own much of anything if you’re buried six feet deep in the glaciers of Caina.” He paused. “I don’t think the cherubim are going to move themselves for one tiny, foolish fallen angel, whatever Barachiel might claim. I think I’m willing to take that particular gamble, Gadriel.”
Gadriel pressed her lips together. That, she thought, is a very good gamble.
Technically, her dubious contract with heaven was complete. Wormwood could drag her to Caina with perfect impunity, and no one with the power to do anything would so much as twitch their fingers.
As Gadriel worked to digest this thought, her phone dinged softly. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the screen.
Bookie: Nearly there. Everything is in order.
Four shadowy wings had started closing in upon Gadriel. She glanced up at Wormwood with her heart pounding in her chest.
“Wait!” said Gadriel quickly, holding up her hand. “If I’m going away for eternity, then it’s only fair I get a last bite to eat. A last supper, if you will.”
Wormwood paused heavily. His serpentine eyes narrowed. “We are not stopping off for burgers on the way to Caina,” he said shortly.
“No need,” Gadriel assured him. “I’ve always got some snacks on me.” She rummaged hurriedly in her pockets—and produced a single, partially eaten chocolate bar.
Gadriel snapped off a piece… then raised an eyebrow at Wormwood.
She offered out the chocolate.
“To the victor goes the spoils, I suppose,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like a piece of chocolate?”
The Third Calamity stared down at the piece of chocolate, ruminating heavily. But Gadriel had spent hundreds of years now tempting people into just one more piece of chocolate. In fact, one might go so far as to call her the Leonardo DaVinci of chocolate tempters… and Wormwood, unlike Holly Harker, was at least passingly fond of chocolate.
Very slowly, Wormwood reached out to take the piece of chocolate.
“I’m not letting you off in return for a bit of chocolate,” Wormwood said suspiciously. “You’re still going to freeze for all of eternity.”
Gadriel shrugged. “Alas,” she said. “It was worth a try.”
Wormwood popped the piece of chocolate into his mouth.
