Page 126 of Bent Out of Shade
There was just one thing left on my plate: steal the Ascendant back from Dumah to free the Leviathan and destroy it once and for all. If the Ascendant even existed anymore. It could have been broken in transit or Dumah might have destroyed it as part of his penance if he was as guilt ridden as Kian claimed.
I stuffed a handful of chips in my mouth, staring at the board where I’d laid out my case for Dumah having killed my parents. The facts all fit, but if Dumah had no desire to escape—and I believed Kian on that score—then there was no motive for any of the murders.
He could just be cruel, but now that I was able to think logically about it, why go to all the trouble of arranging the killings, since he hadn’t done them himself? The fallen angel had scores of souls to torture. He didn’t need to send proxies after a few humans to get his kicks.
If I excluded all evidence from the past and stuck only with what had transpired in the past week or so, what was I left with?
An amulet that Dumah had used to summon me, and which Nora had felt compelled to deface. It was tied to the hunters and the figures on it had to be Senoi, Sansenoi, and Sammaneglof. Was Dumah trying to warn me about the three? Why? I already knew how awful they were.
Next up were these Whispers, though technically, they’d shown up in the past as well.
Last, but not least, a broken hallelujah.
I licked chip crumbs off my fingers. Who wanted to meet me if not Dumah? I munched on another handful, the vinegar flavor puckering my mouth.
I spun my chair from side to side, repeating, “Senoi, Sansenoi, Sammaneglof. Senoi, Sansenoi, Sammaneglof. Sen san sam. Sen san sam.” When I said them softly like that, it kind of sounded like…
Whispers.
Who would have murdered my parents if not Dumah? How about the three angels who’d created the hunters to do the dirty work of murdering more Banim Shovavim?
I choked on my mouthful of food, coughing and pounding my chest.
Senoi, Sansenoi, and Sammaneglof hated Banim Shovavim—and the Leviathan. Did they classify the fallen angel as an abomination and despise him too?
The chip bag hit the ground with a rustling sound. “Did Senoi, Sansenoi, Sammaneglof want Dumah out of Gehenna so they could destroy the angel or exile him in their own territory like they did to the Leviathan?”
I paced the room, refitting the facts to this new theory. Dumah had the means but no motive for the murders.
What about the other three angels? They weren’t imprisoned, and while I had no idea what celestial beings were capable of, I’m sure they could both snap necks from a distance and start very contained and considerate fires that never harmed anyone else’s property.
Okay, they had the means, what about motive?
They were the ones who tortured Arlo. That was a fact. Was it because he’d helped Dumah or because he tried but Dumah didn’t take the bait? Was that when the trio went after my parents, not to kill the latest Banim Shovavim with the Ascendant, but to convince them to do their bidding? Except by the time the three caught up with Mom and Dad, Calvin Jones had the amplifier, not them.
I crushed my chip bag underfoot, a sob catching in my throat. Were Mom and Dad condemned to die because the angels were pissy the Banim Shovavim they required for their plan no longer had the amplifier?
Magic poured out of my skin, encasing me in darkness. I gripped the table, my head bowed, taking deep breaths until I’d forced it all down and locked it away with my rage.
The bitter irony was that Dumah didn’t even want to leave Gehenna. If the angel had wanted out, it would have been a disaster, but he didn’t. My eyes widened.
The other three angels didn’t know that.
“Angels aren’t omniscient, are they?” I said in surprise.
An answering trumpet blast almost made me wet myself.
Just like when I’d opened the rift with the Ascendant, a crack of light appeared in my office like a crooked smile. It grew wider and wider, filling the room, then a backlit figure appeared, careful not to breach the boundary into my home.
I fanned away the sharp, fetid stink of rotting onions.
A familiar older woman with frizzy gray hair, shapeless jeans, and purple socks with plastic clogs batted a couple of stray dybbuks back into the darkness, before firing finger guns at me. “What’s crackalackin’?”
“Goldie?” I crashed back onto my chair hard enough to make the seat bounce. “You can’t be an angel. I’m going crazy.”
She laughed, a booming, warm sound that had come to represent home. It hit me in the heart. Damn, I missed her. “Breathe, matzoh ball, you’re freaking out.”
Matzoh ball, that had been Goldie’s nickname for me. M.B., the same as my real initials, Miriam Blum. For a moment, I felt like a teenager again.
