Read Online Incarnate (A Spellmason Chronicle) by Anton Strout - Free Book Online
Authors: Anton Strout
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my full attention to the monk.
“You are welcome here, Jonathan,” I said. “You may consider Sanctuary your home, and those around you your family.”
The angel looked around the space with both reverence and relief on his face. “Thank you,” he said. “That is most generous.”
“Thank
you
,” I said. “My own particular lineage has not always been known for their generosity, so it does my soul good to hear you say such a thing. Before I release you, however, I would ask a boon from you.”
Wariness crept into the stone eyes of the monk, but after a second of hesitation, he nodded. “Ask, and if it is in my power to be of aid to you, I will try.”
“The many souls that currently inhabit the living stonework of Alexander Belarus are varied,” I said. “I cannot fathom why certain souls have lingered on earth long enough to take possession of these forms, but I do know after these many long months that not all of them are as kind as you. For my favor I would ask only that you do in turn what we have done for you. Help another of our kind if you can . . . Bring them to us or inform us of any unquiet souls you come across.”
Jonathan nodded. “Very well,” he agreed.
“Now, with regard to your own life,” I said, “your previous human life, that is . . . it would be in your best interest to stay clear of the Cloisters.”
Curiosity filled the angel’s face. “Oh, really?” he asked with a hint of disappointment in his words.
I nodded.
“It is best to let go of your past,” I said. “Who you were is behind you. Who you
will
be is up to you.”
The monk fell silent in contemplation. “You have given me much to think about, Stanis,” he said, “but first I would like to thank the three people who gave me over to your care earlier tonight.”
“Three?” I repeated. Alexandra and Aurora had been the only ones Emily and I had seen in Fort Tryon Park. Marshall would have been their likely third, but they said he was back at his store.
“There was the woman with the bladed staff, and the one you call Alexandra, and the man at the edge of the forest.”
“
What
man at the edge of the forest?”
The angel’s face sunk. “He wasn’t with them?”
“I do not believe so,” I said. “Describe him.”
The angelic monk thought for a second. “Everything happened so fast,” he said. “I think he had a close-trimmed beard . . . but also wild black hair. Oh, wait! The rings!”
“Rings?” Emily asked.
The angel nodded. “I remember the light of the moon shining off his hands,” he said. “They were covered in rings, every finger.”
Emily looked to me. “Do you know this person? Is this an associate of your human friends?”
“I am afraid not,” I said, “but I will inquire with Alexandra. She is . . . changed as of late. Perhaps there are people working with her now that I am unfamiliar with.” I turned to the monk, gesturing to the stained glass window overhead. “Go, fly. Introduce yourself to the quarry.”
The monk cocked his head at me. “Quarry?”
“It is a term my friend Marshall Blackmoore came up with,” I said. “A group of crows is called a murder; whales come in a pod . . . He coined the term that a gathering of our kind is known as a quarry.”
He smiled at that, and with an awkward leap into the air, the angel headed up and out of the church, fumbling for a moment with the window as he exited. When the window pivoted shut after him, the space was silent once more and I turned my attention to Emily.
“Do you think he will stay? Not every
grotesque
does . . .”
“I think he will be fine,” she said, reassuring me. “I almost envy him.”
“Why?”
“He knows how he died,” she said. “He knows where he is buried. I cannot say the same for myself. It is very unnerving to be in this form, Stanis, without knowing how one got here, not knowing the fate by which my human life was terminated. My death is as much a part of me as
“You are welcome here, Jonathan,” I said. “You may consider Sanctuary your home, and those around you your family.”
The angel looked around the space with both reverence and relief on his face. “Thank you,” he said. “That is most generous.”
“Thank
you
,” I said. “My own particular lineage has not always been known for their generosity, so it does my soul good to hear you say such a thing. Before I release you, however, I would ask a boon from you.”
Wariness crept into the stone eyes of the monk, but after a second of hesitation, he nodded. “Ask, and if it is in my power to be of aid to you, I will try.”
“The many souls that currently inhabit the living stonework of Alexander Belarus are varied,” I said. “I cannot fathom why certain souls have lingered on earth long enough to take possession of these forms, but I do know after these many long months that not all of them are as kind as you. For my favor I would ask only that you do in turn what we have done for you. Help another of our kind if you can . . . Bring them to us or inform us of any unquiet souls you come across.”
Jonathan nodded. “Very well,” he agreed.
“Now, with regard to your own life,” I said, “your previous human life, that is . . . it would be in your best interest to stay clear of the Cloisters.”
Curiosity filled the angel’s face. “Oh, really?” he asked with a hint of disappointment in his words.
I nodded.
“It is best to let go of your past,” I said. “Who you were is behind you. Who you
will
be is up to you.”
The monk fell silent in contemplation. “You have given me much to think about, Stanis,” he said, “but first I would like to thank the three people who gave me over to your care earlier tonight.”
“Three?” I repeated. Alexandra and Aurora had been the only ones Emily and I had seen in Fort Tryon Park. Marshall would have been their likely third, but they said he was back at his store.
“There was the woman with the bladed staff, and the one you call Alexandra, and the man at the edge of the forest.”
“
What
man at the edge of the forest?”
The angel’s face sunk. “He wasn’t with them?”
“I do not believe so,” I said. “Describe him.”
The angelic monk thought for a second. “Everything happened so fast,” he said. “I think he had a close-trimmed beard . . . but also wild black hair. Oh, wait! The rings!”
“Rings?” Emily asked.
The angel nodded. “I remember the light of the moon shining off his hands,” he said. “They were covered in rings, every finger.”
Emily looked to me. “Do you know this person? Is this an associate of your human friends?”
“I am afraid not,” I said, “but I will inquire with Alexandra. She is . . . changed as of late. Perhaps there are people working with her now that I am unfamiliar with.” I turned to the monk, gesturing to the stained glass window overhead. “Go, fly. Introduce yourself to the quarry.”
The monk cocked his head at me. “Quarry?”
“It is a term my friend Marshall Blackmoore came up with,” I said. “A group of crows is called a murder; whales come in a pod . . . He coined the term that a gathering of our kind is known as a quarry.”
He smiled at that, and with an awkward leap into the air, the angel headed up and out of the church, fumbling for a moment with the window as he exited. When the window pivoted shut after him, the space was silent once more and I turned my attention to Emily.
“Do you think he will stay? Not every
grotesque
does . . .”
“I think he will be fine,” she said, reassuring me. “I almost envy him.”
“Why?”
“He knows how he died,” she said. “He knows where he is buried. I cannot say the same for myself. It is very unnerving to be in this form, Stanis, without knowing how one got here, not knowing the fate by which my human life was terminated. My death is as much a part of me as
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