Blackridge Institute (wlw) - DA 1

Chapter 13

Casandra sat in the Director's office. They were having tea together, their steaming cups untouched in front of them. When the tea got cold, the Director held it in their hands and warmed it again. Neither drank.

The Director opened their mouth as if to speak, closed it, and ran a hand through their hair. Casandra pressed her lips together.

The door opened. In walked a very large man in flowing pearl robes, face like a young boy—like no young boy who ever lived, because his face was a sculpture. They both stood to greet him; the Metatron had arrived.

"Is it as it seems, your radiance?" The Director wrung their hands.

"Pyrrha is no longer with us. His soul is dissipated."

Casandra sat back down, and the Director scrubbed a hand over their face. They said, "What must be done? We are investigating, of course. But what else can we do?"

Cas rather thought the Director was only trying to save their reputation, until she realized she would do the same. The entire population of the Institute would have to be protected and more importantly placated, because if something killed an angel, surely no one was safe.

"Continue as you are, Director. My powers will correspond with you soon. For now, I must extract Casandra."

"Lord," she said, standing again. "I have work here."

"Not as important as the work I will entrust to you, Casandra. Come with me."

And Casandra could hardly argue as the Metatron took her hand and led her out of the office. They walked to a window, where he sprouted his massive three sets of wings and flew. Cas followed suit.

The Metatron, the last of the prime angels. Contemporary to her forebear Abaddon, he was impossibly old and wise. He was their leader, more than the High Council could ever be, as much as angels could have leaders.

He was also the first scribe. Despite everything, Casandra felt a surge of determination to impress the person she wanted to work for.

She didn't know where they were headed, but followed anyway. They came to what looked like a hospital.

Cas was led down identical hallways and they stopped at a door. The Metatron said, "We will look at Pyrrhus's vessel one last time."

Dread filled her. "I can't."

"You must. You were the only one who was there." The Metatron looked deep into her eyes, as if probing.

When Solomon had wrestled her down and looked over the edge for herself, Casandra had seized her and flew all the way to their room. She had thrown Sol inside through the window. "You were here the whole night, asleep. You know nothing. Burn your clothes."

And before Solomon could protest, she flew back to the body.

Now the body lay in front of her, stark naked, the blood cleaned off. The eyes were still open.

The Metatron said, "How did this body die?"

Casandra pointed to darkened scars like algae crawling across skin, and recited. "Electrocution."

She looked at the stab wounds. "Those were post-mortem. Multiple chest stabbings. And the skull."

There was no skull to speak of. The head was crushed, the brain along with it. She had known it was Pyrrha because of the hair and the clothes.

"And what happens when the vessel dies?"

"The mind is expelled, Lord."

"Yes. And it returns to the Dream. Pyrrha has not returned to the Dream."