Passion for Twenty: Journey’s End

TWENTY

JOURNEY'S END

Of course, there had only ever been one place to find her.

The first one. The beginning.

Daniel tumbled toward the rst life, ready to wait there for as long as it would take Luce to make her way there, too. He would take her in his arms, whisper in her ear, At last. I found you. I wil never let you go.

He stepped from the shadows and froze in blinding brightness.

No. This was not his destination.

This ambrosial air and opalescent sky. This cosmic gulf of adamantine light. His soul constricted at the sight of the waves of white clouds brushing against the black Announcer. There it was, in the distance: the unmistakable three-note hum playing softly, endlessly. The music the Throne of the Ethereal Monarch made purely by radiating light.

No. No! No!

He was not supposed to be here. He meant to meet Lucinda in her first incarnation on Earth. How had he landed here, of al places?

His wings had instinctively unfurled. The unfolding felt di erent than it did on Earth—not the vast release of nal y let ing himself go, but an occurrence as commonplace as breathing was to mortals. He knew that he was glowing, but not in the way he sometimes shone under mortal moonlight. His glory was nothing to hide here, and nothing to show, either. It just was. It had been so long since Daniel had been home.

It drew him in. It drew them al in, the way the scent of a childhood home—pine trees or homemade cookies, sweet summer rain or the musk of a father's cigar—could do for any mortal. It held a mighty power. This was why Daniel had stayed away these last six thousand years.

He was back now—and not of his own volition.

That cherub!

The pale, wispy angel in his Announcer—he had tricked Daniel.

The pinions of Daniel's wings stood on end. There had been something not quite right about that angel. His Scale brand was too fresh. Stil raised and red on the back of his neck, as if it had been freshly carved …

Daniel had flown into some sort of trap. He had to leave, no mat er what.

Aloft. You were always aloft up here. Always gliding through the purest air. He spread his wings and felt the white mist ripple over him. He soared across the pearly forests, swooping above the Orchard of Knowledge, curving around the Grove of Life. He passed satin-white lakes and the foothil s of the shining silver Celeste Mountains.

He'd spent so many happy epochs here.

No.

Al that must remain in the recesses of his soul. This was no time for nostalgia.

He slowed and approached the Meadow of the Throne. It was just as he remembered it: the at plain of bril iant white cloudsoil leading up toward the center of everything. The Throne itself, dazzlingly bright, radiating the warmth of pure goodness, so luminous that, even for an angel, it was impossible to look directly at it. One could not even get close to seeing the Creator, who sat upon the Throne clothed in brightness, so the customary synecdoche—cal ing the whole entity the Throne—was apt. Daniel's gaze drifted to the arc of rippled silver ledges circling the Throne. Each one was marked with the rank of a di erent Archangel. This used to be their headquarters, a place to worship, to at end, to cal on and deliver messages for the Throne. There was the lustrous altar that had been his seat, near the top right corner of the Throne. It had been there for as long as the Throne had been in existence.

But there were only seven altars now. Once there had been eight.

Wait—

Daniel winced. He knew he'd come through the Gates of Heaven, but he hadn't thought about precisely when. It mat ered. The Throne had only been imbalanced like that for a very short period: the sliver of time right after Lucifer stated his plans to defect but before the rest of them had been cal ed upon to choose sides.

He arrived in that blink of a moment after Lucifer's betrayal but before the Fal .

The great rift was coming during which some would side with Heaven and some would side with Hel , when Lucifer would turn into Satan before their eyes, and the Great Arm of the Throne would sweep legions of them of the surface of Heaven and send them plummeting. He drew nearer to the Meadow. The harmonious note grew louder, as did the choral buzz of angels. The Meadow was glowing with the gathering of al the brightest souls. His past self would be down there; al of them were. It was so bright Daniel couldn't see clearly, but his memory told him that Lucifer had been permit ed to hold court from his repositioned silver altar at the far end of the Meadow, in direct opposition to—though not nearly as high as—the Throne. The other angels were assembled before the Throne, in the middle of the Meadow. This was the rol cal , the last moment of unity before Heaven lost half its souls. At the time Daniel had wondered why the Throne ever permit ed the rol cal to occur. Did he who had dominion over everything think Lucifer's appeal to the angels would end in sheer humiliation? How could the Throne have been so wrong?

Gabbe stil spoke of the rol cal with startling clarity. Daniel could remember lit le of it—other than the soft brush of a single wing reaching out to him in solidarity. The brush that told him: You are not alone.

Could he dare to look upon that wing now?

Perhaps there was a way to go about the rol cal di erently, so that the curse that befel them afterward did not strike so hard. With a shiver that reached his very core, Daniel realized that he could turn this trap into an opportunity. Of course! Someone had reworked the curse so that there was a way out for Lucinda. The whole time he'd been racing after her, Daniel had assumed it must have been Lucinda herself. That somewhere in her heedless ight backward through time, she'd opened up a loophole. had assumed it must have been Lucinda herself. That somewhere in her heedless ight backward through time, she'd opened up a loophole. But maybe … maybe it had been Daniel al along.

He was here now. He could do it. In some sense, he must already have done it. Yes, he'd been chasing its implications through the mil ennia he'd traveled to get here. What he did here, now, at the very beginning, would ripple forward into every one of her lives. Final y, things were beginning to make sense.

He would be the one to soften the curse, to al ow Lucinda to live and travel into her past—it had to have begun here. And it had to have begun with Daniel.

He descended to the plain of cloudsoil, edging along the glowing border. There were hundreds of angels there, thousands, l ing it up with lustrous anxiety. The light was astonishing as he slipped in among the crowd. No one perceived his Anachronism; the tension and fear among the angels were too bright.

"The time has come, Lucifer," his Voice cal ed from the Throne. This voice had given Daniel immortality, and al that came with it. "This is truly what you desire?"

"Not just for us, but for our fel ow angels," Lucifer was saying. "Free wil is deserved by everyone, not just the mortal men and women whom we watch from above." Lucifer appealed now to the angels, burning brighter than the morning star. "The line has been drawn in the cloudsoil of the Meadow. Now you are al free to choose."

The rst heavenly scribe stood at the base of the Throne in shimmery incandescence and began to cal out the names. It started with the lowest-ranking angel, the seven thousand eight hundred and twelfth son of Heaven:

"Geliel," the scribe cal ed, "last of the twenty-eight angels who govern the mansions of the moon."

That was how it began.

The scribe kept a running tal y in the opalescent sky as Chabril, the angel of the second hour of the night, chose Lucifer, and Tiel, the angel of the north wind, chose Heaven, along with Padiel, one of the guardians of childbeds, and Gadal, an angel involved with magical rites for the il . Some of the angels made lengthy appeals, some of them scarcely said a word; Daniel kept lit le track of the tal y. He was on a quest to find himself, and besides, he already knew how this ended.

He waded through the eld of angels, grateful for the time it took to cal out al the choices. He had to recognize his own self before he rose up out of the masses and said the na?ve words he'd been paying for ever since.

There was commotion in the Meadow—whispering and ashing lights, a grumble of low thunder. Daniel hadn't heard the name cal ed, had not seen the angel float up to declare his choice. He shoved through the souls in front of him to get a bet er view. Roland. He bowed before the Throne. "With respect, I am not ready to choose." He looked at the Throne but gestured at Lucifer. "You are losing a son today, and al of us are losing a brother. Many more, it seems, wil fol ow. Please, do not enter lightly into this dark decision. Do not force our family to splinter apart."

Daniel teared up at the sight of Roland's soul—the angel of poetry and music, Daniel's brother and his friend—pleading in the white sky.

"You are wrong, Roland," the Throne boomed. "And in defying me, you have made your choice. Welcome him to your side, Lucifer."

"No!" Arriane shrieked, and ew up out of the center of brightness to hover beside Roland. "Please, only give him time to understand what his decision means!"

"The decision has been made" was al the Throne said in reply. "I can tel what is in his soul, despite his words—he has already chosen."

A soul brushed up against Daniel's. Hot and stunning, instantly recognizable.

Cam.

"What are you?" Cam whispered. He sensed innately that something was di erent about Daniel, but there was no way to explain who Daniel real y was to an angel who'd never left Heaven, who had no conception of what was to come.

"Brother, do not fret," Daniel pleaded. "It is me."

Cam grasped his arm. "I perceive that, though I see you're also not you." He grimly shook his head. "I trust you are here for a reason. Please. Can you stop this from happening?"

"Daniel." The scribe was cal ing his name. "Angel of the silent watchers, the Grigori."

No. Not yet. He had not worked out what to say, what to do. Daniel tore through the blinding light of souls around him, but it was too late. His earlier self rose slowly, gazing neither at the Throne nor at Lucifer.

Instead, he was looking into the hazy distance. Looking, Daniel remembered, at her.

"With respect, I wil not do this. I wil not choose Lucifer's side, and I wil not choose the side of Heaven."

A roar went up from the camps of angels, from Lucifer, and from the Throne.

"Instead, I choose love—the thing you have al forgot en. I choose love and leave you to your war. You're wrong to bring this upon us,"

Daniel said evenly to Lucifer. Then, turning, he addressed the Throne. "Al that is good in Heaven and on Earth is born of love. This war is not just. This war is not good. Love is the only thing worth fighting for."

"My child," the rich, steady voice boomed from the Throne. "You misunderstand. I am standing rm on my ruling out of love—love for al of my creations."

"No," Daniel said softly. "This war is about pride. Cast me out, if you must. If that is my destiny, I surrender to it, but not to you."

Lucifer's laughter was a foul belch. "You've got the courage of a god, but the mind of a mortal adolescent. And your punishment shal be that of an adolescent." Lucifer swept his hand to one side. "Hel wil not have him."

"And he has already made plain his choice to forsake Heaven," came the disappointed voice from the Throne. "As with al my children, I see what is in your soul. But I do not know now what wil become of you, Daniel, nor your love."

"He wil not have his love!" Lucifer shouted.

"Then you have something to propose, Lucifer?" asked the Throne.

"An example must be made." Lucifer seethed. "Can you not see? The love he speaks of is destructive!" Lucifer grinned as the seeds of his most evil act began to sprout. "So let it destroy the lovers and not the rest of us! She wil die!"

Gasps from the angels. It was impossible, the very last thing anyone expected.

"She wil die always and forevermore," Lucifer continued, his voice thick with venom. "She wil never pass out of adolescence—wil die again and again and again at precisely the moment when she remembers your choice. So that you wil never truly be together. That wil be her punishment. And as for you, Daniel—"

"That is su cient," the Throne said. "Should Daniel choose to stand by his decision, what you propose, Lucifer, wil be punishment enough." There was a long, strained pause. "Understand: I do not wish this upon any of my children, but Lucifer is right: An example must be made."

This was the moment when it had to happen, Daniel's chance to open a loophole in the curse. Boldly, he ew upward in the Meadow to This was the moment when it had to happen, Daniel's chance to open a loophole in the curse. Boldly, he ew upward in the Meadow to hover side by side with his earlier self. Now was the time to change things, to alter the past.

"What is this twinning?" Lucifer seethed. His newly red eyes narrowed at the two Daniels. The host of angels below Daniel flickered in confusion. His earlier self looked on in wonder. "Why are you here?" he whispered. Daniel did not wait for anyone to question him further, did not even wait for Lucifer to sit down or for the Throne to recover from this surprise.

"I have come from our future, from mil ennia of your punishment—"

The sudden bewilderment of the angels was palpable in the heat sent out of their souls. Of course, this was beyond anything any of them could fathom. Daniel could not see the Throne clearly enough to tel what e ect his return had on him, but Lucifer's soul glowed red-hot with rage. Daniel forced himself to go on:

"I come here to beg clemency. If we must be punished—and my Master, I do not question your decision—please at least remember that one of the great features of your power is your mercy, which is mysterious and large and humbles us al ."

"Mercy?" Lucifer cried. "After the size of your betrayals? And does your future self regret his choice?"

Daniel shook his head. "My soul is old, but my heart is young," he said, looking at his earlier self, who seemed stunned. Then he gazed at his beloved's soul, beautiful and burning bright. "I cannot be other than what I am, and I am the choices of al my days. I stand by them."

"The choice is made," the Daniels said in unison.

"Then we stand by the punishment meted out," the Throne boomed.

The great light shuddered, and in the long moment of ut er silence, Daniel wondered whether he had been right to come forward at al . Then, at last: "But we wil grant your request for mercy."

"No!" Lucifer cried. "Heaven is not the only party wronged!"

"Quiet!" The Throne's voice grew louder as he spoke. He sounded tired, and pained, and less certain than Daniel had ever imagined possible. "If one day her soul comes into being without the weight of sacrament having chosen a side for her, then she shal be free to grow and choose for herself, to reenact this moment. To escape the ordained punishment. And in so doing, to put the nal test to this love that you claim supersedes the rights of Heaven and family; her choice then wil be your redemption or the nal seal on your punishment. That is al that can be done."

Daniel bowed down, and his past self bowed down beside him.

"I cannot abide this!" Lucifer bel owed. "They must never! Never—"

"It is done," the Voice thundered, as if he had reached his capacity for mercy. "I wil not tolerate those who would argue with me on this or any other mat er. Begone, al of those who have chosen il or not chosen at al . The Gates of Heaven are closed to you!"

Something flickered. The brightest light of al suddenly went out.

Heaven grew dark and deadly cold.

The angels gasped and shivered, huddling closer together.

Then: silence.

No one moved and no one spoke.

What happened next was unimaginable, even to Daniel, who had already witnessed the whole thing once before. The sky beneath them shuddered and the white lake brimmed over, sending a ery surge of steamy white water ooding over everything. The Orchard of Knowledge and the Grove of Life fel into each other, and al of Heaven shook as they shuddered to their deaths. A silver lightning bolt cracked forth from the Throne and struck the west end of the Meadow. The cloudsoil boiled into blackness, and a pit of the darkest despair opened up like a sinkhole right under Lucifer. With al his impotent rage, he and the angels closest to him—vanished. As for the angels who had yet to choose, they, too, lost their purchase on Heaven's plains and slid into the abyss. Gabbe was one of them; Arriane and Cam, too, as wel as the others dearest to his heart—col ateral damage from Daniel's choice. Even his past self, eyes wide, was swept toward the black hole in Heaven and vanished within.

Once again, Daniel could do nothing to stop it from happening.

He knew that a nine-day fugue of tumbling ever downward stood between the fal en and the moment they would reach Earth. Nine days he couldn't af ord to spend not finding her. He plunged toward the abyss.

At the edge of nothingness, Daniel looked down and saw a spot of brightness, farther away than the farthest thing imaginable. It was not an angel, but a beast with vast black wings darker than the night. And it was flying toward him, moving upward. How?

Daniel had just seen Lucifer at the Judgment up above. He'd fal en first and should be far below. Stil , it could be no one else. Daniel's vision focused sharply and his wings burned from shoot to tip when he realized that the beast was carrying someone tucked under his wing.

"Lucinda!" he shouted, but the beast had already dropped her.

His whole world stopped.

Daniel did not see where Lucifer went after that because he was diving across the sky toward Luce. The burning of her soul was so bright and so familiar. He shot forward, his wings clasped close to his body so that he fel faster than seemed possible, so fast that the world around him blurred. He reached out and—

She landed in his arms.

Immediately, his wings pul ed forward, making a protective shield around her. She seemed startled at rst, as if she'd just awakened from a terrible dream, and gazed deeply into his eyes, let ing out al the air in her lungs. She touched his cheek, ran her ngers across the tingling ridges of his wings.

"At last." He breathed into her, finding her lips.

"You found me," she whispered.

"Always."

Just below them, the mass of fal en angels lit up the sky like a thousand bril iant stars. They al seemed drawn together by the pul of some unseen force, clinging to one another during the long plunge from Heaven. It was tragic and awe-inspiring. For a moment, they al seemed to hum and burn with a beautiful perfection. As he and Luce watched, a bolt of black lightning darted across the sky and seemed to encircle the bright mass of the fal ing.

Then everything but Luce and Daniel grew absolutely dark. As if al of the angels, al at once, had tumbled through a pocket in the sky.