Angels on Fire by Nancy A. Collins

Author:Nancy A. Collins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Premier Digital Publishing

Chapter Thirteen

“It’s not much,” Ezrael said, gesturing to the interior of his apartment as he unlocked the door, “but its home. Mi casa es su casa, my friend.”

The Muse’s apartment was a large studio located near Gramercy Park. Or, it would have been if it weren’t crammed to the rafters with bookcases, artist portfolios, archivist’s boxes and objets d’art. The only areas that were free of clutter were the tiny kitchenette and the equally minuscule bathroom just off the entrance. Even the lofted bed, built over an antique roll-top desk, had a stack of books serving as a head board.

Joth moved through the stacks of magazines and old books as easily as a cat, despite its wingspan. The angel did not stir so much as a molecule of dust as it passed. “There is great power here,” the elohim said, its voice worshipful.

“Yes, there is,” Ezrael replied, not without some pride. “I have several climate-controlled storage lockers salted around the world—but these are the treasures I hold dearest, the ones I feel the need to keep close by me.”

Joth ran its fingertips over the spines of the books in bookcases that lined every wall. The look on the angel’s face was that of a hungry man standing outside a bakery shop. “Alice’s Adventures Underground...Moby Dick...Paradise Lost...” Joth intoned, its eyes rolled back in its head as if reciting a rosary.

“All first editions,” Ezrael said as he removed his copy of Carroll from its place on the bookshelf, smiling at the book as if it was a favored child. “Within the merging of paper, ink and idea, a world is born, one that comes to life within those who read it. And while there is power in even the cheapest pasteboard knock-off, there is something—unique—that remains within these first editions. Within these pages can be heard the squall of newborn worlds.”

Joth opened one of the larger, older portfolios, going straight to a series of charcoal sketches sealed in airtight plastic pouches.

“Ah! The Da Vinci,” Ezrael said knowingly. “I should have known an elohim would be drawn to it as a bee to clover.”

“These are from the hand of one of the Blessed,” Joth’s voice was as awed as that of a pilgrim before a shrine.

“There are works from many of the Blessed in this room,” Ezrael said quietly, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I knew them all; some were my lovers, others my friends, some—like Leonardo—were descendants I sired on deathling women. All of them I did my best to protect and nurture.

“I’ve tended to favor the graphic arts—painters, engravers, sculptors, illustrators and the like. I’ve had the odd author and musician under my wing, but I’ve enjoyed the most success with painters, by far. Even when I failed to protect my charges’ physical selves, I’ve made sure their posterity would be far greater than anything they might have dreamt of while alive. Van Gogh is probably my greatest achievement in that regard.”

Ezrael picked up another one of the larger portfolios, allowing even more Hogarths, Klimts, Breughels, Goyas, and Blakes to spill forth.

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