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Tread of Angels

Rebecca Roanhorse

New York Times Bestselling Author of Black Sun

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Title Page

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Dedication

For those in need of a little redemption

CHAPTER 1

It was the devil’s hour on Aventum Angelorum, Goetia’s own high holy day, and there was a black wind blowing off Tabor’s mine. It slithered down the mountain past the places where the old gods of the continent had once held sway. It rolled through the mining town below, called Goetia, snatching hats off heads and shivering shoulders. It wormed its way through the holiday merrymakers on Perdition Street, whispering memories of heavenly war, of bright Lucifer’s doomed defiance, and the sweet aftertaste of rebellion cloyed noses and mouths, making those who breathed it in discontent and covetous.

When it hit the Eden, Perdition Street’s premiere gambling and drinking establishment, it nearly blew the place down. Wood hit sharp against wood as the front doors flew open, and the glass pane bearing the saloon’s moniker cracked straight through. The ruckus drew startled screams and cries of drunken surprise from the patrons, masked faces turning to see what, or who, had entered. A few of the witchier clientele threw a hex to turn evil away, but there was enough vice already squatting in the Eden that whatever extra ungodliness the wind blew in didn’t faze most of the regulars.

At first, Celeste Semyaza didn’t even feel that old wind licking against her cheek. She was sitting in the dealer’s chair at the faro table, focused on the game before her. But when the cards jumped up, kings and jack fools dancing wild in the sudden gale, she spread her hands across the cards to keep ’em down. The three players in front of her did the same, stretching arms and bodies over potential winners… and inevitable losers.

Hypatia, the owner of the Eden, six feet tall and built solid as one of those cursed-up mountains that encircled the town, rushed forward to secure the doors. She paused long enough to let a costumed couple slip through, the woman clutching the tip of a papier-mâché wing as the man, unsteady on high-heeled boots shaped like goat’s feet, leaned into her. They stumbled to the bar, where Zeke, the resident bartender, awaited them. But Celeste didn’t even notice them, already focused back on the card game.

“Place your bets,” she told the players now that the wind had quieted down.

An Elect man sporting a bowler hat and an impressive yellow mustache held his bet, gesturing for the other players to go first. Celeste eyed him, suspicious. He wasn’t one of her regulars, so she figured he must be in town for the holiday. Nothing unusual there, but he was worth keeping an eye on.

The man to Mustache’s right bore the Mark of the Fallen, that telltale ring of gold around dark eyes and a pair of curling ram’s horns. The Fallen man took the opportunity to lay down ten chips on the three of spades.

A mysterious woman in a wide-brimmed blue hat and matching veil extended a long-nailed hand to carefully set a dozen chips on the queen.

The revelry of the Eden had picked back up. The ill wind that had forced its way past the doors of paradise was quickly forgotten to the pleasure of gin slings and gambling. Somewhere nearby, a saloon girl laughed loudly.

The mustachioed man still hadn’t laid his bet, and Celeste tapped her fingertips against the felt loudly.

“Where’s that singer I heard about?” he asked with lazy indifference. His gaze flickered to the stage next to the piano on the far side of the room as his fingers tripped across a steadily shrinking stack of chips. “Heard she’s a beauty with an impressive set of—”

“That’s my sister.” Celeste cut him off.

“—lungs.” He glanced at the dealer, whistling low. “Well, I’ll be. Mariel Semyaza’s your sister? But you don’t have the…” He touched a finger to his eye.

He wasn’t the first to notice she didn’t have the Mark and wouldn’t be the last. “I favor our daddy.”

His face scrunched up, puckered sour as a lemon. “A half-breed, then? Well, well.”

Celeste kept a small dagger up her sleeve in a sheath attached to her forearm. It was an ingenious thing that Zeke had made for her, meant to shoot the blade down into her hand, hilt to palm, with just a twist of the wrist.

“Watch your tongue, Mister,” she said, low and matter-of-fact, “assuming you want to keep it.”

He had a dry, unpleasant kind of laugh, more wild dog than man. “Now, don’t get your back up.”

“Then don’t talk about my sister.”

“I’m only being friendly.”

“I don’t need friends. What I need you to do is place your bet.”

He sucked at his teeth, fingers still idling over chips.

Finally, the woman in blue spoke, her voice a soft, sibilant hiss. “Place your bet or make room for someone who will. You’re holding up the game.”

The Fallen man grumbled in agreement, so with a put-upon sigh, Mustache dropped half a dozen chips on the eight card.

Satisfied, Celeste drew the soda card and placed it to the side. Next, she drew the loser—an eight. Mustache groaned. He’d lost the round.

“Not your night, is it?” the Fallen man next to him observed lightly.

Celeste drew the winner, and the veiled player yawped a muted cry of joy before raking her winnings close. Celeste gave her a congratulatory nod and had begun to reset for the next round when she felt it. She thought for a moment maybe that wind had come on back, but the cards were as still as a spooked-up church mouse. Yet there was something at the back of her neck. A breath, a touch. She couldn’t describe it except to say it was a wrongness.

She glanced behind her, but there was only the wall. She told herself it was just the ten-cent man at her table getting under her skin, but even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie.

“We playin’?” the man in question asked, voice turned mean with losing.

She almost said yes, but her eyes cut to the empty stage, and the word stuck in her craw. Where was Mariel? Maybe that was the bad feeling that had caught hold of her neck. Mariel should have been up there singing, keeping the crowd cooled.

Celeste waved, trying to get Hypatia’s attention, but the woman was holding court at the corner of the bar, telling one of her infamous tall tales, and couldn’t spare a glance her way.

She scratched at her neck, unable to shake that bad notion, like someone was throwing a hell of a hex, and promptly said, “Table’s closed.”

A groan circled the table.

“The game’s not done!” Mustache’s outrage turned up a notch.

“It’s done when I say it’s done,” Celeste said. “There are other tables. Find yourself another if you don’t like it.”

“But I’ve got money invested in this one.” His voice was practically a shout, and people paused over their drinks or in the middle of their stories, noticing. His hand strayed down toward his belt, and Celeste saw the butt of a revolver there. She calculated the odds of the man drawing down on her on account of feeling cheated and decided she didn’t like them.

Her eyes flickered back to Hypatia. This time, the woman was watching.

“That’s money the house won fair and square,” Celeste said carefully.

“And I need a chance to win it back. I’ve got to get a ticket on that new airship to the capital, and this here’s only half of what I need.”

“Not sure that’s on the dealer,” the Fallen man said, eyes cutting in sympathy toward Celeste. “You’ve had poor luck all night, friend.”

“And your luck’s about to be worse if you don’t stay out of this, friend,” he retorted, hand still hovering over his revolver.

Calm everybody down, Celeste thought. That’s what Hypatia would say. And also, don’t kill the customers, especially when they’re lining your coffers.

She lifted her hands. “All right, then, Mister. One more round. Give you a chance to win your money back, and then we’re even.”

Mustache grinned and let his hand drift back up toward his card. “Now, that’s more civilized.” He motioned for Zeke to send over a fresh drink. “And maybe we can get that sister of yours to come on out and show us her lungs.”

The dagger was in her hand before he’d sucked in a breath to laugh—and through his hand before he’d made a sound.

“I said don’t talk about my sister!”

He froze, staring, before he started screaming. Hollering like she’d stuck him in the heart instead of just the hand. He reared back, trying to get free, and his loose arm swept wide, sending drinks and chips flying.

The room dissolved into chaos. Someone was shouting murder, maybe one of Mustache’s companions, and then someone else was throwing a punch, and the blue-veiled woman’s hat tumbled off, revealing alligator scales and a forked tongue.

Celeste scooped the house winnings into a sack, dragged the dealing box in with them, and dropped low to the ground, just in time to miss a bullet flying past to lodge into the wall behind her. She glanced up and spied Hypatia grabbing the shooter by the neck, disarming him with a vicious chop, and dragging him bodily toward the front door. Celeste shifted directions, crawling out the other side. A crowd had gathered to watch the fight, some of the drunker patrons joining in. She kept her head low and worked her way through the rough-and-tumble, dodging the worst of it.

“Zeke!” she shouted over the din once she’d reached the bar. Zeke had a shotgun in hand and was busy guarding the spirits lining the back wall, making people think twice about taking advantage of the ruckus to try to steal what wasn’t theirs. “Have you seen Mariel?”

He grinned, eyes bright, his boyishly handsome face flushed. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Said she wasn’t feeling well,” he yelled back. “She’s lying down in the back for a while. Want me to rouse her?”

She looked across the room to where the back offices were. There were at least ten men between her and that door, all looking like they’d love to join in the row. “No. If she can sleep through this, then let her. I’ll have a smoke and wait it out.”

“Want me to send Hypatia out?”

She glanced over her shoulder. A few other punters had joined in the fight, and Hypatia was in the middle of it all, banging heads together, looking happy as a pig in shit.

“Wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Zeke grinned and sent her off with a salute.

Celeste slipped out into the back alley, avoiding the mess she’d made.

CHAPTER 2

It was blessedly empty out back behind the Eden, if not particularly quiet. Somewhere someone was singing loud and drunk enough to wake the dead, and piano music echoed down the dirt road through open saloon doors. Laughter spilled from intoxicated lips, and the faintest scent of opium tinged the night air. Normally, three a.m. found Goetia aslumber, but Aventum Angelorum only happened once a year, and people made the most of it. Even at this hour, Perdition Street bustled.

The holiday was the commemoration of the end of Lucifer’s rebellion and the war that followed, although whether one marked it as a celebration or a day of mourning depended entirely on which side of the war one’s ancestors had been on. The citizens of Goetia were mostly Elect, so the morning had seen a parade down Main Street and speeches by the local politicians. In the afternoon, those same upstanding denizens poured into the exhibition hall to ooh and aah over the latest mining innovations and wondrous clockwork creations powered by the divinity that came out of those mines. There had even been a charity dinner at the mayor’s mansion, with society ladies in taffeta and silk.

But by nightfall, even the most God-fearing of Goetia set aside their righteousness and joined the Fallen down on Perdition. Everywhere there were men and women, Elect and Fallen, rich and poor, dressed as devils, angels, and any manner of hellish creature roaming the streets. Horns and wings were the order of the day, but there were the occasional satyr’s cloven foot and a blackened halo made of painted straw.

That’s not to say the Elect and the Fallen were at odds in Goetia the other days of the year. They needed each other, in a wretched sort of way. The Fallen were the only ones who could spot the divinity lode for mining, a gift of their ancestry. The Elect paid fair wages for that service and for the other talents of the Fallen that kept Goetia booming. But amid the iniquity of Perdition was the only place they mixed as equals. Everywhere else, Elect were on top and Fallen somewhere below.

Celeste was halfway done with her cigarillo when out came Hypatia, her curls in disarray and a wide smile on her generous mouth. She swiped blood from the corner of her lips, leaving a crimson trail across one cheek.

“How goes it?” Celeste asked, eyes askance on the blood.

Hypatia laughed. “Invigorating!”

Hypatia claimed she was the descendant of the eponymous Alexandrian philosopher and mathematician, but everyone knew her name was Mary and that she hailed from the middle of the continent. Times like these, when her guard was down, Celeste could hear the prairie in her voice.

“And the man?”

She turned a baleful eye to Celeste. “You mean the one you stabbed?”

“That’s the one,” she said, flat as pan water.

“What did I tell you about that, Celeste?”

“Not to do it, but you didn’t hear him, Hyp. He was disrespecting Mariel.”

“Mariel’s a grown woman and can defend herself. She doesn’t need you stepping in to maim a man for every little slight.”

“She wasn’t there to defend herself, so I did it.” Celeste paused. “Maim? So he’ll live?”

Hypatia sighed gustily. “He’ll live, but you better hope he doesn’t bring the law down on us.” She leaned over, palm open to Celeste. In her hand was Celeste’s dagger. “You’ve got to think before you do these things.”

Celeste took the blade and fitted it back into her trick holster. “And if I said I was sorry?”

“It’d be a start, assuming you meant it.”

Celeste was quiet. Hypatia grunted. “That’s what I thought.”

Something crashed loudly inside, and Hypatia muttered about expensive furniture and glass that was hard to replace, but she said, “Ah, hell, Zeke can handle it. I’m getting too old for this shit.” She withdrew a flask, unscrewed it, and drank deeply.

Celeste watched her, amused. “I’ll never understand why you own a bar but insist on carrying your own.”

“That shit in there is watered to piss,” Hypatia admitted, coughing lightly. “This is the good stuff, straight from the barrel. You want?”

“Better not. I’ve got to get Mariel home later.”

Hypatia rolled her shoulders. “Don’t be such a biddy, Celeste. I swear, that half-Elect blood of yours keeps you wound tighter than a rich man’s asshole.”

Celeste bristled. She wanted to protest that watching out for her baby sister had nothing to do with her being mixed-blood, but she was worried there was some truth in Hypatia’s observation, although not the way she meant it. Celeste could pass as Elect, but Mariel could not, and that left Celeste with a certain obligation to look out for her sister, especially on a night when free license moved the hearts of men in wicked ways. But she didn’t feel like explaining it all to Hypatia, especially when she wasn’t sure she had the words for it, anyhow.

“Maybe so,” she conceded, tossing her spent cigarillo to the ground before crushing it with her heel. “Think I’ll go wake her up anyhow and get home.”

“You sure? There’s still plenty of merrymaking to be had.” She gestured at the night. “Costumed revelry. It’s not too late join in.” The older woman looked her up and down. “How old are you? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Almost a spinster. It’s about time you stopped slumming it down here with us, anyhow. Find yourself some Elect gentleman who’ll marry you and make you respectable.” Her tone was light, but Celeste could tell she meant it. “I’ll never understand why you spend your time down here when you could be up there, living the life.”

“You know why.” Celeste’s voice was hard. “Besides, you’re well past thirty, and I don’t see you on the arm of a man.”

“And you never will.” Hypatia pulled from her flask again. “It’s different for us full-bloods, and you know it.”

And that stung more than Celeste liked. “Good night, Hypatia.”

“Wait, I was going to ask you, what do you think of that new saloon girl?”

“Which one?” she asked, a touch exasperated. “You go through a half dozen girls a month.”

“The short one with the fringe and the dimples.”

“She seems nice,” she said diffidently. She couldn’t, in fact, place a face with Hypatia’s description.

“Nice in the sack, too.” Hypatia waggled her thick eyebrows, enough to make Celeste laugh.

“I’m not shacking up with a saloon girl, either.”

“Her name’s Lilitha, and why not? Haven’t you ever wanted someone, Celeste?”

“You know I have,” she said, working hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice, “but it didn’t work out.”

“Aw, hell.” Hypatia had the grace to look embarrassed. “Abraxas. Look, I didn’t mean to bring him up, I just—”

“Forget it. That’s long over, and nothing’s changing that. Now all I want is to go home and get some sleep.”

“I wish you’d tell me what happened.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she lied. “It’s just… complicated. Besides, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got everything I need.”

“You mean Mariel?”

“And faro. Assuming I’m not out of a job after tonight.”

Hypatia allowed her to change the subject. “Naw, that was just the kind of excitement that keeps the Eden top pick on Perdition Street. Don’t want us getting a reputation for respectability, do we?”

Celeste smiled, grateful for the grace. “Heaven forfend.”

“I’m just saying that if you don’t let anybody in… well, it’s a lonely life you set yourself up for. Mariel won’t stick around for long. She’ll marry soon enough, and nobody’s life ambition is to deal faro.”

“Let it go, Hypatia,” Celeste growled, and then her brain stuttered over Hypatia’s last words. “Wait, what do you mean Mariel’s marrying?”

The door between them banged open, and Celeste jumped, nervous as a jackrabbit.

“Celeste!” It was Zeke, and he was panting like he’d run a mile instead of thirty feet. “You’ve got to come quick!”

“More trouble?” Hypatia asked.

“It’s Mariel, isn’t it?” Celeste asked. This was the trouble that had been breathing down her neck, now come home to roost. She looked at Zeke, hoping to hell she was wrong, but his face said she’d told true.

“Sheriff’s here, and he’s got Virtues with him. They’re dragging her out right now.”

Virtues were the highest of the Elect. They might only be human, but they were sworn in service to the Orders of the Archangels.

“What the hell for?” asked Hypatia.

“I would’ve come as soon as they got here, but I was settling things after the tussle like you told me to, and I didn’t register them until it was too late.”

“Which Order is it?” Celeste asked.

None of the Orders were fond of the Fallen, but at least some of them were benevolent. The Order of Raphael were healers, and the Order of Chamuel were justice keepers and peacemakers. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

“The Order of Michael.” Zeke looked sorry when he said it.

Celeste flinched. The Order of Michael were soldiers, and their loathing for the Fallen was well documented. If they’d come for Mariel, then nothing good would follow.

“How many?” she asked.

“Word is a dozen, at least, and there’s an Azrael among ’em.”

“Aw, hell,” Hypatia muttered.

The Order of Azrael were murderers, no two ways to say it. They might claim their executions were God’s impartial justice, but their flaming swords fell on Fallen necks ten times out of ten.

Celeste reached for the door, but Zeke was already moving down the alley. “This way’s faster. Come on!”

They followed, Celeste’s heart racing as her mind tried to catch up. Mariel, in the hands of the Virtues. How? Why? She didn’t understand, but understanding didn’t matter. Doing did.

And what she needed to do was save her sister.

CHAPTER 3

Perdition Street was still shoulder to shoulder with all manner of masked merrymakers, but they pushed their way through. Around them people spilled from the saloons and brothels and opium dens into the street, drawn by the sight of the Virtues.

They were fearsome, dressed like the worst kind of avenging angels in a sensation story. They wore long white coats and small-brimmed felt hats, and they covered their faces with white porcelain masks that rendered them shrewd and inhuman even among the Aventum masqueraders. They sat astride silvered quarter horses and stared motionless at the crowd, all expression lost behind their pale facades.

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