Adrianne Brooks

 

 

'My faith is my failing,'

Defiance winced as the kilns breathed acrid, burning air all around her. An exhalation drenched in sulfur that left the taste of ashes, dry and gray, on her tongue. The heat that crawled past the tight band of her leather tunic was a whispered warning on her fingertips. A warning she would have heeded if not for the glowing blade she gripped with one heavily gloved hand. The timing of her hammer had to be perfect, the iron scream of metal kissing cooling steel an endless echo ringing in her ears. So bright and clear it might as well have been crystals dancing in the air and shattering at her feet.

Clang, clang, clang.

The cooler the steel became, the stronger the vibration that traveled up her arm. It was an uncompromising soul tasked with the duty of crafting a priest's living blade, and no soul was as uncompromising as hers. 'My faith is my failing, my sin my salvation.' The prayer, an unrelenting chant in her mind, fell into a familiar rhythm, and before she knew it, her hammer had taken up the dance of it. Shaping stubborn metal into something deadly and sharp. From the corner of her eye, souls writhed in the air around her like swaths of gossamer caught in a breeze. Their icy fingers tugged at the ends of her curling brown hair and pulled at her clothes. If she ignored them long enough, they would claw at her skin and scream chaos into her blood, but it was a small price to pay for weaving bits and pieces of their essence into the blades she crafted. These swords were for lower-ranking priests, so they wouldn't need much – a memory here, a voice there. Enough to bind to the metal and set it to glowing, bright blue, atop the anvil, if only for a breath.

"Defiance!"

The sound of her name brought Defiance up short, throwing her off. She cursed as Besnik's slippered feet whispered across the tiled floor. He came to a stop behind her as she slid the half-finished sword into a bucket of water right next to the anvil she'd been using as a brace. Steam rushed up, a cloud of white, while heat died with a wail that nearly twisted her heart. The metal cooled from bright blue, to deepest red, to a dull gray. A heart gone quiet. She hated that part the most. Defiance licked the sweat and the ever-present hint of coal dust from her upper lip and turned to glare at her best friend.

"You're going to be late," he warned, and Defiance glanced toward the window. Shit. He was right. The sun was starting to make its descent in the sky, and she still had a summons to answer.

"You won't make it," Besnik warned as Defiance rushed past him toward the door.

"I'll make it," she returned. And she would, because she had to. You don't ignore a summons from the Head Priest. Not if you wanted to live. Defiance grabbed her coat on the way out, ignoring Besnik and his shouted warnings as they chased after her. What could he say that she didn't already know? What caution could he preach that hadn't already been beaten into her years ago?

It was later than even she had expected, and Defiance took off running, feet flying across the tightly packed sand of the Enclave. She should have been better at this by now, but even after three years, it hadn't gotten any easier. Technically, she was still an apprentice blacksmith, and as an apprentice, it was one of her responsibilities to accept weapon orders from the Clerks. Unfortunately, ever since her Foster Father, Guiril, hurt himself a few months back, she'd secretly taken over crafting as well. Although it was a noble thing for an Acolyte to possess a degree of skill in a discipline, a girl on track to join the Nunnery had no right risking life or limb in such a way. Not when she would eventually pledge herself body and soul to the Horned God.

To do so was to spit in the face of the All Mighty; a grave offense in the eyes of the Church. So, as she ran, she swiped nervous hands across her face, searching for any hint of ash or soot that might give her away. The scent of burning things was heavy on her clothes, a silent admission of the guilt that sat heavy within her. Ripe and waiting. All too so, on the stone steeples of the church loomed overhead – a jagged afront to the sky. Like claws scrapping a soft blue underbelly, hungry for innards to spill like red rain. As she climbed the steps, Defiance imagined she could feel the gazes of the stone gargoyles falling upon her one by one. Crouched at the highest points of the church, their hunger practically seeped through the stone. A cold, ravenous thing that dragged a familiar chill down the length of her spine.

Thunder growled a warning in the distance just as she stepped inside – a reminder perhaps that what lay within the Church was just as dangerous as what lurked outside of it. Still, Defiance breathed a sigh of relief to be inside and beyond the scrutiny of the gargoyles. They weren't awake yet, but she could have sworn they were waiting for the chance to strike behind the façade of stone that kept them in check. The idea of their inhuman awareness – even suspended in stone - left her throat dry with terror.

"Idle hands and minds are the devil's playthings, young Gray."

Speaking of stone-cold monsters…

The familiar beat of a cane across the marble floor was like a whip across her subconscious, but as Defiance turned, she was careful to keep her expression blank.

"Sister Eunice," she bowed her head, not only in greeting but in acknowledgment of the Nun's status over her. Behind her, the church doors slid shut with a hiss, and the entryway darkened as if a shade had come home to roost. Defiance shivered, cold now that she was away from the Kiln, and Sister Elizabeth's icy blue eyes raked over her. It was hard not to shrink beneath the other woman's regard. It had been two years since she'd lived at the orphanage, but old habits die hard when face to face with a Disciplinarian. On her own, Sister Eunice was not an imposing woman. Defiance towered over her by at least a foot. But the way her black skirts pooled across the equally black floor like spilled ink looked as if Eunice had risen fully-grown and already bitter from the darkness. Her mouse-brown hair was streaked with gray and in a tight braid that had been wrapped like a crown around her head. That gray was the only sign of her age, and one outsiders barely saw since she normally wore a wimple when not confined to Church grounds.

"Your business here, girl. State it quickly."

If one didn't know better, they might have thought Eunice a young woman with her smooth skin and bright blue eyes. But Defiance had grown up in the nunnery, and she knew for a fact that Eunice did not age. None of the nuns did. Something was done to them during the commitment ceremony that was held for new members of the Church that changed them in some fundamental way. If she looked too closely, something in the Nun's eyes reminded her starkly of the brittle hunger of the Gargoyles, only infinitely more dangerous. The Sentinels, at least, were shackled to the night. Meanwhile, Nuns like Sister Eunice were free to roam the world as they pleased. A nightmare in a crisp, ironed, wimple.

The rod in Eunice's hand slapped sharply against her thigh and Defiance jumped. "Ever the scatterbrain I see," The sister sneered. "Did you come here for business or worship, Gray? Spit it out or begone with you; the bells are set to ring in less than an hour."  

Defiance flushed. Whenever she was around a Sister, she was half convinced that her thoughts were not her own, and Eunice's reaction did little to dissuade her of her suspicion.

"I'm here to receive the order for the upcoming Coronation," Sister Eunice was right. Defiance needed to state her business and be on her way quickly. Otherwise, she'd be trapped in the temple with everyone else too slow or dumb to get off the streets before nightfall. "Where might I find the Head Priest at this hour?"

Sister Eunice eyed her before turning away. A line of girls were making their way down an ornate staircase, dressed in matching black skirts and bodices. Age, race, and religion didn't matter. Not here. Not anymore. They were all simply cogs in the great machine that was the Holy Church and would remain that way until they came of age and either found a job amongst the congregation or joined the nuns themselves. "In the cathedral," Sister Eunice was saying, eyeing her flock proudly. Once upon a time, there may have been dissenters amongst their ranks, but they would have been culled long ago. Those that remained were the byproduct of Sister Eunice's unique mix of discipline and rabid faith. "He is busy bestowing blessings to the lost, but should be done momentarily."

Defiance eyed the girls – the oldest no more than 16 - and envy twisted like a sick thing growing in her middle. They had a place in this world, at least for now. Would that she could say the same, but something had always been wrong with her. From the moment she realized she could manipulate souls as only a Holy Warrior could, she knew that her years in the compound were numbered. The church knew all, and one day, she'd be found out and killed. Or worse, tossed beyond the wall to survive amongst the horrors that stalked the sands. When Sister Eunice realized that Defiance hadn't yet moved, her voice lowered until it was little more than a hiss. "Be quick, girl. His holiness has more important things to do than indulge the likes of you."

Defiance nodded and took off past the sister, trying her best not to run.

'More important things,' she thought, the words twisting in her middle like a knife. As if the Priests were any good against the Angels that remained from the Great War without the weapons she forged for them. It wasn't as if she wanted to come back to the church every few weeks. Every time a new recruit joined the priesthood and its horde of Holy Warriors, it was up to Defiance to meet with them so that she could customize the sword they would use during their service to the Church. Holy Weapons were the only things that could destroy a demon, after all, and if the soul that gave the weapon its destructive power was incompatible with its user, then…well it wasn't pretty. Arming the Holy Warriors wasn't just about saving their lives either. Warriors were seen as indomitable, and if people began questioning that strength, it would endanger them all.

The 'wall' that protected each compound was an invisible, impenetrable, forcefield held together entirely by the collective faith of the people. Defiance heard horror stories as a child of what became of congregations when their walls fell. The Angels – savage, terrifying beasts made of flame - decimated those who lived inside, leaving the compounds themselves nothing but ghost towns in the middle of the desert. It's why every High Priest demanded blind obedience, why troublemakers were dealt with swiftly and brutally, why the congregation's dedication to the Church was tested time and time again, and each of their sins brought before all to be dissected and judged.

The church and the Priests were cruel and exacting because they had to be. It was the only way to protect everyone. Without faith in the church, the Blessing that protected the inhabitants of the city from the outside world would crumble, and the tenuous peace humanity had found after the last great war would be destroyed along with it.

The cathedral was in the center of the church, and Defiance stepped inside to the sound of worshippers deep in prayer. Their begging surrounded her like greedy arms, picking at her skin as if they were eager to pick her clean. Carrion birds, the lot of them. Defiance chided herself for the thought as soon as it came. She was no better. It was the way of things, after all. Rations were scarce even after the Priests ventured out on supply runs. Everyone wanted what you had, and if you let your guard down long enough, they would take it. The smithy was exempt from the predatory practices because of Besnik and his liberal use of the iron hammer he always kept at his hip, but not everyone had a Besnik. Many of those on their knees praying were covered in wounds and so skinny as to be nothing but bones. It's why they were here so close to nightfall. They were not surviving out in the city amongst the stronger members of the congregation, and the Church was the last safe place they had left. Many would likely join the Priesthood or the Nunnery soon, if only for a chance at food and a warm place to sleep.

Which meant that Defiance would be back soon enough to take their measure when the time finally came. In the meantime, there was only one person she was here to see. The room was massive – it had to be to fit everyone in the congregation – with soaring cathedral ceilings and sweeping black marble floors. A huge plate of stained glass faced the setting sun in the west. On it was the Divine Saint, Death, as he struggled with one of the Archangels that had been sent to earth to destroy him. Death's last known host had been a young man named Alexander. The blond-haired human had the telltale blue eyes of one of the Willing. His expression was a mask of violent triumph as he ripped the wings from the creature writhing beneath his feet. Backlit by the sun, the bloody scene cast the entire room in a red haze that set her teeth on edge.

Directly below the stained glass was the pulpit where the High Priest stood, staring down at the congregation. He wore a brass mask that had been carved to resemble the visage of one of the great stone gargoyles. For all their violence, the gargoyles protected the congregation from attacks beyond the wall. Anyone inside of the wall who was mauled by the beasts had clearly lost the blessing of the church and deserved what had become of them. The mask was intended to keep the human identity of the Holy Priest a secret. Though willing, possession took a toll on human bodies. The more powerful the being beneath the skin, the larger the price paid. The High Priest's hosts usually died quickly. Sometimes within days of their possession. But humans are simple-minded creatures. It was difficult for some to separate the Holy One known as the High Priest from the bodies they wore to walk the earth. The mask added an air of ambiguity that helped with this. It also helped shield the congregation from what dedication to the church truly meant. For some reason, people were less inclined to volunteer as hosts after watching someone they once knew practically disintegrate before their eyes.

Who knew?

The High Priest's arms were lifted in prayer, and with the stained glass shining blood red at his back, casting his bronze mask in sharp belief, he truly seemed a creature risen from the lowest depths of Hell.

"O Mighty Lord," Defiance intoned, bowing her head along with everyone else. They'd been mid-prayer when she arrived, and the words came to her as naturally as they always had. "By whom all things are set free, I cast myself utterly into Thine arms and place myself unreservedly under Thy all-powerful protection. Comfort me and deliver me from all the hindrances and snares of those who wish to harm me, both seen and unseen."

With each word, something built within her – as heavy as any warning - and her skin flushed with heat. "Visit justice and vengeance upon those who seek my destruction," she continued, practically spitting out the prayer as venom filled her blood. Around her, souls quivered beneath human flesh, eager to flee, and voices broke and fell silent one by one until only Defiance spoke. She should have stopped. Played along as if cowed by the Almighty's show of power over her. She did not. "Render them powerless and devastated. Direct their malice to return upon them tenfold and to destroy them who would resent my being. Fill my soul with Thy invincible power, strengthen me that I may persevere in my service, and act as an agent of Thy works and a vessel of Thy will." The storm within her built and built, and she gasped the last words as if she might choke on them if she didn't release them.

"Ave Satanas."

The pressure, that terrible biting pressure within her, released all at once, and she sagged, panting. Sweat coated her skin, and her heart hammered desperately from behind the cage of her ribs. Defiance lifted her gaze to find dozens of eyes on her and froze. Could they see it in her? The joy at the burn? The excitement? To pray was both empowering and an act of subjugation all at once; a spell she'd lose herself in if not for the attention of so many. 'My faith is my failing,' the reminder came to her unbidden, and her gaze fell in shame. Her tongue was still hot, as if every syllable had left her branded, and she pressed her lips tight to hold the kiss of pain close. Against her better judgment, she looked toward the High Priest, only to find him already staring down at her. His expression hidden behind the monstrous mask.

Still, Defiance could have sworn she caught a glimpse of bright blue before the High Priest motioned a subordinate up to take his place at the podium. He stepped down while the other priest led the congregation in song. Defiance kept her head down as the Priest approached and walked past her without a second glance.

Defiance had lived in the church long enough to know that it would be beneath him to acknowledge her where the others might see, so she followed in his wake without waiting to be told. Careful to keep a respectful distance as the High Priest strode from the cathedral and down the hall to the receiving room. Which was the closest thing the priest likely had to an office or inner sanctum. If he wasn't in the cathedral doling out blessings and punishments or lecturing about the sin of broken faith, he was here taking care of mundane tasks that kept the city running smoothly. Defiance had no idea what went into managing hundreds of worshipers, but she could well imagine.

Unlike the rest of the Church, the receiving room was richly decorated. With plush, red velvet cushions and matching drapes to soften the harshness of the stone walls and floor. A large wooden desk took up most of the room, but Defiance's eyes were drawn to what lay before the desk. A rounded cushion lay on the floor next to a metal collar that was attached by a short chain bolted into the stone. Her gaze shied away from the collar and cushion. The armoire against one wall was shut tight, but she knew what lay beyond the doors. She knew because she'd had a hand in crafting each whip just as she'd been the one to forge the collar and its chains.

By the time she received an old collar, it was usually so saturated with blight that she couldn't even melt the metal down and reuse it for something else. Instead, the collar and the chains attached to it had to be scrapped entirely. Anything that remained buried in the cemetery that lay just beyond the wall.

Already, the metal whispered to her from across the room, throbbing with hurt from its latest victim. Every trauma had the ability to shed a piece of one's soul. Everyone knew that, but not everyone could hear and see it the way that Defiance could. Metals held on to the whispers the best, which is why blacksmiths were the ones tasked with binding souls. In fact, working with souls day in and day out meant that she could see when and where someone had lost a sliver of theirs. Bits and pieces decorated the city like gossamer trailing in the wind. Shimmering like waves of heat above the sand. Souls found their homes in new places all the time, but more often than not, they were trapped where they'd been put last. The reception room hadn't been this loud the last time she'd paid a visit. Now it was a shriek, like nails raked down stone. An endless ripple that left her unsure on her feet and battling back nausea.

Defiance ground her teeth around the ache of it.

"Sit, please." Despite the pleasantries, she recognized an order when she heard one. Eager to show obedience after the debacle during evening prayer, she scanned the room. There was nowhere for her to rest except for the pillow on the floor. Her eyes refused to settle fully on the collar. She had somehow managed to avoid a visit to the Reception room during her early years at the church, before Besnik and his father took her in. Her youth had helped, but mainly, Defiance knew the importance of keeping her head down and her mouth shut. As long as she followed orders, no one paid her any mind. A thought occurred, a wild urge to run, but she ignored it and stepped toward the cushion. Smoothing her pants over her legs as if she were tucking skirts out of her way, she knelt, her gaze downcast.

The High Priest's steps whispered across the floor as he circled her, and Defiance stiffened as he placed a proprietary hand on the crown of her head.

"Defiance, is it?"

Defiance nodded, forcing herself to keep her breathing even and unbothered. The Priests liked fear. Encouraged it. But she had no desire to be fed on in such a way. Not now or ever.

"Yes, sir."

"That's quite a name, especially for a young woman."

If she could have, she would have shrunk into herself. Her name had always been a source of shame. When someone was born, the attending Priest took measure of their soul and named the babe accordingly. Names held power, and by giving each of the congregation a 'true name,' the Church exerted a measure of control over everyone within the wall. 'Besnik' for example, meant loyal or faithful. When he died, Defiance or someone like her would use his name to bind his soul and the unique qualities that made him him to steel. A new body, once his earthly one was no more. Repayment to the Church for all they'd done for him while he lived.

Names weren't enough, however. If someone was found wanting, then a name was given to alert all who heard it that the soul who bore the title was unfit to serve the church either in life or death. Such had been the case for Defiance. As soon as she was born, the Church dubbed her faith questionable, her nature unworthy of the Horned Ones' Blessing.

An Uncompromising soul, indeed. Her 'defiance' was a thing so deeply ingrained that it stained her like a sin. One she must constantly atone for at every given opportunity. And she tried. Truly she did. But her nature was a beast tugging at a leash, howling to be let loose. Prayer had shown her that she still had so much further to go until she got control over herself and these wild impulses that had defined her for most of her life.

The High Priest's palm was still resting on her crown, and she took a sudden, shaky breath as if she'd just risen from somewhere deep and devoid of oxygen.

"I'm sorry," she wasn't sure what else to say. She had been apologizing for who she was ever since she was old enough to talk, old enough to walk. It was second nature.

The High Priest remained still, and from his open palm she sensed the telltale tickle of power. Like dozens of little worms crawling from his bare skin to sink into her, squirming, burrowing, searching for something she had no words for. She tried not to scream, tried not to lunge up and wrap her hands around his throat. That was the unworthy part of her talking again. Moments of high stress always showed you who someone was. The difference was that she knew how to ignore it. The worms slipped beneath her skin, testing the bounds of her faith, ensuring that there was no doubt or weakness in her that might compromise them all. She gritted her teeth against the invasion until the sensation faded.

"I see," he said finally, lifting his hand and taking a step back. She wondered if he really could. "Rise, my child."

Defiance did so clumsily, thighs shaking.

"Lift your head."

She flinched, but did as she was told, lifting her head and allowing her gaze to settle on the stone wall just past his shoulder. This body was taller than his last. The one before this one had been nearly her height, but now he was a full head and shoulders above her. He smelled of Sandalwood and Cloves. The scent struck her straight in the gut, and she took a stumbling step back on legs left weak from his probing magic.  

"Now, Now, Gray, none of that."

His hand gripped her by the collar of her blouse, lifting her up on her tip toes and pulling her close once more. Her breath caught, and without thinking, she cast a panicked glance up at the gargoyle's mask. It was improper to be so close to a Priest, especially a High Priest. She could see the blue of his eyes, feel his breath hot across her face. She sucked in a deep breath. This close, she sensed something else tucked away beneath the cloves. Something as familiar, as visceral, as her own name. Blood. She glanced away.

"Is this how you take stock of a man's soul?" he asked, voice pitched low and the coldness of his mask pressing briefly against her cheek.

Defiance shuddered, but when he remained silent, as if he were truly awaiting an answer, she shook her head. "No, sir." She rasped. Surely, he remembered from all the times before? "I-I must lay hands on you."

Something dark and twisting coiled to life between them. Waiting. Ready. The High Priest made a low sound in the back of his throat.

"Then by all means…"

For a moment, she didn't know what to do. Then, she realized that he expected her to touch him now, while he still held her off balance. Hesitantly, she reached forward and pressed her fingertips against the bare skin peeking over the collar of his shirt and closed her eyes.

'Everything will be fine.' As strange as all of this might be, this was the same High Priest she had known her entire life. The closest thing any of them would ever get to knowing God. She trusted him implicitly, just as she'd been taught. Just as she always had.

But there was something…off about him now. Defiance had grown use to the shape of his soul. Granted, each new possession changed it in subtle ways. Enough to require new weapons and armor, but not enough to leave him unrecognizable. The last time she'd 'seen' the High Priest, his soul had been as cool as water. Dark and smelling of mold and rot. It always left her feeling slimy, regardless of whom he happened to be sharing a body with. She had grown used to how the human hosts affected the Angel inhabiting their bodies. But this was different. Instead of water, there was nothing but fire. A brutal blaze that seared her skin and left coals on her tongue. Fire and steel, steel and blood, bones and ash. Bodies trapped in a deadly dance, and the screams of the dead and dying all around. Defiance flinched back, but the High Priest caught her hand and held her still until the acrid scent of burnt flesh filled the room.

Eyes flying open, Defiance cried out, smoke trailing past her lips as if she'd just licked an open flame. Property flew out the window as she met the blue eyes beyond the mask. She could have sworn he was smiling beneath its shadow.

"Don't tell me you've had enough?" He asked with a laugh, confirming her suspicions, this time releasing her so that she could fall back. Her palm was throbbing, an open wound of seared flesh and blackened nail beds. She flushed, cold and hot all at once, as she stared at him. Fire. Fire and blood. She could still see it in him now that she knew where to look. Worse than that was the realization that there hadn't been two souls sharing one body. There was only the one. Only him. A beast of brimstone and punishment. Which meant…

"Impossible," she breathed. One soul. One soul, one body. One body, one soul. This was no possession. It was an original form. Unfortunately for Defiance, the only ones powerful enough to walk this world without a Host were Divine Saints. Beings from the Great War who led the battle against the Daemons descending from the sky to subjugate mankind. Veterans of the Apocalypse and a character right out of a children's fairytale.

Tales of the Saints were told every service. She knew the stories of each by heart. She also knew that the chances of meeting one of them were as unlikely as her riding a gargoyle.

The pain in her palm was racing down the length of her arm, and the room was growing dark. "Who are you?" she asked, voice slurring. Her treacherous body didn't let her stick around long enough to hear his answer. Though she was sure, now that she'd seen his soul, that whatever came out of his mouth would have just been another lie.