Faith Hunter - Host

The words and title warmed me and I stood with a lighter heart, accepting the box. I raised my eyebrows at him, and Shamus nodded, smiling and showing coffee brown teeth. Carefully, I lifted the lid. Inside, lying on a red velvet bed shaped to hold it secure, was a cross made of gold. In its center was set a faceted emerald the size of a hen’s egg, the gem glowing with green light.

“It’s said that Benaiah Stanhope, the Mole Man, carried this cross into battle against the Darkness,” Jasper said softly. “That he carried it aloft when he gave his life to bind the Dragon. It’s said that his blood still lines the crevices in the setting of the stone. We offer it to you, knowing it should be carried into battle again, in the grasp of the one who will rebind the evil.”

I knew what an honor this was, to be offered the use of any of Mole Man’s possessions, and understood that, like the sword I had given away, this wasn’t a personal present, but more in the nature of a loan, to be returned when the need was over, or to be kept in perpetuity in the consulate. Opening my senses, I breathed in, catching the scent of old blood, human and something else. In mage-sight, the artifact glowed with blue light, but specks of Darkness were there too, and that was something I would have to consider later, when no camera was present.

I looked up at Shamus. “Mineral City honors me.” I closed the box and handed it to Audric, who placed it on a display cabinet. Bending over the table, I lifted the wrapped bundle containing my formal gift to the town. It too was more like a tribute, a gift of state. And while it wasn’t worth as much in monetary terms as the cross or the sword, it was valuable to me.

“I offer this small token to the town fathers.” I set it in Shamus’ hands, supporting them when he was surprised at the weight. “I carved it from the quartz crystal of the nearby hills,” I said as I peeled back the layers of soft cloth to reveal a small statue. It was a seraph with wings held high over his head, tips touching. He wore battle armor and carried a sword braced across his body. The figure was only inches high, but it had taken me weeks of recuperation time after the last major battle beneath the Trine to carve it. It was hand polished, but only in sections. The face and feet were clear as lead crystal, the stone bending light. The wings were unpolished, giving them a ruffled texture. The body was partially smoothed, still fruzy, the matte finish of the shaped but unpolished, natural rock.

Shamus stared at the statuette in shock, snapping his mouth closed and swallowing before he could speak. “The consulate general of the Battle Station Consulate is far too generous. We are honored to accept this gift on behalf of the town.”

The camera focused full screen on the carving for half a minute before Romona backed slowly away, taking in the fathers, the tied mage, me, and settling on Jasper as the man moved close to Shamus.

Jasper touched the seraph with a finger as if expecting it to be cold, carved from ice. When it was warm to his touch, he sucked in a breath and lifted his head. Closing his eyes, he said, “The gift is fitting. Battle Station Consulate was created by the High Host, licensed by the seraphim, and blessed by the visits of seraphs at a time when they so seldom leave their Realms of Light.” His voice was low, deeper than his usual tone, meditative and resonant, and a frozen wind seemed to blow across my flesh, raising it into tight goose bumps at the tone.

“This place has been sanctified by the presence of two sigils, one in the consulate itself”—he opened his eyes and gestured to the sigil burned into the display case glass, his brown robe of office undulating with the movement as if a wind blew through the room—“and one in the street, that glowed when our mage received help from Minor Flames in the battle two nights ago.” He lifted his other arm and pointed out the window to the street, leaving him with arms outstretched to either side.

My throat went dry, aching with tightness. A shiver raced over me at his expression. My entire body tightened as if to ward off a blow, and I had to fight to keep from drawing my weapons. Audric and Rupert stepped back. I wanted to sink into the chair, or run away and hide from the look in his black eyes, fervent glory illuminating them with the light of prophecy.

The ordinary, down-to-earth Jasper was no longer in the room. In this moment, he was truly an elder of the kirk, dedicated to the service of God the Victorious. I had never seen the presence of true prophecy before, had never seen holy ardor fall on a spokesman of the Almighty, but I knew that had happened to my old friend Jasper. As if uplifted by the hand of his God, his eyes glowed with divine zeal, with the presence of the Most High.

Beside him, Shamus and Elder Ebenezer dropped to their knees, moving with awe, their creaky bones grinding in the silence. Eli fell to his knees as well, and then bowed his face to the floor in obeisance. I slid to my knees, and my champards all followed. Romona knelt as well, filming, still filming, and I wanted to laugh, a witless titter aching in my throat. I heard her mutter into the mike, almost below the sound of human hearing, “And every knee shall bow.”

“Battle Station Consulate is a new thing,” Jasper said, no longer sounding quite human, but with the richness of otherworldly passions, his voice a low rumble of sound. He raised his hands high, his sleeves falling away to reveal a work shirt of faded brown cotton, but he might as well have been wearing cloth of gold, because his flesh was glowing through it, full of power.

He raised his face as if he could see through the second story and into the sky beyond. Closing his eyes in ecstasy, Jasper whispered, “The children of men are gathered.” His voice rose and deepened, the resonance vibrating into my bones. “The Dragon breaks free. All the old things have passed away.”

Jasper dropped his arms slowly to his sides. His head came down, bowing, eyes closed as if he slept. And he slid to the floor in a boneless heap.

The children of men are gathered. That had been the prophecy. The words had gone out to the world, Romona not waiting for my approval before she uploaded the entire diplomatic session on the cell phone. God the Victorious had spoken, superseding my request to review and cut footage.

The children of men are gathered. Did it, could it, mean what I thought? What I hoped?

I had never been to visit Thaddeus Bartholomew, had never been to his room in the town’s one hotel, but I seemed to be making a habit of slinking my way into men’s bedrooms. And to be the recipient of predictions and prophecy. Predictions could be thwarted and bypassed. Prophecy could not. I pushed away the thoughts. Later. I could deal with them later.

The kylen was asleep when I opened the door, his big body stretched out on the sagging mattress, a down coverlet pulled over him. The blinds were closed, throwing the room into murky shadows, turning the chair in the corner into a hulking monster, transposing the open armoire into a gateway from another realm.

Gloved hands moving clumsily, I closed the door behind me, the latch snicking softly. I took my first breath. Scents of caramel and vanilla, a hint of brown sugar, and beneath it all something peppery, like ginger, filled my head, rich and heated. The scent of kylen, part mage, part seraph, and part human. The smell of sex and need and desire.

Mage-heat slid over me and into me, tightening my breasts and weakening my knees. Desire pooled in my belly and breasts. I stared into the need, into myself, considering.

The Most High had done some strange things in his creation, and mage-heat was up there among the strangest. If the Most High had done it. If mage-heat was more than an accident, and was planned by the creator of the universe. If there was such a creator.